Dissolution
by Winterwren
Summary: A path not taken in Surrender Benson
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: A rewrite and expansion of the 15th season premiere and beyond, if things had gone a little differently. Stays canon for a while, then veers off rather abruptly. Please heed the rating.

1.

Olivia Benson's apartment building was nearly silent when she entered, the only noises from the muffled traffic outside. The television from apartment 4C was already shut off for the night, which Olivia always took as a sign that she was truly late. Coming home to total silence was getting depressingly common again, almost the way it was in her early years as a detective, when she took enough paid and unpaid overtime that she barely remembered what her home looked like. Ten years ago, she wouldn't have minded. Nowadays, she wondered if she still had the energy or idealism for it.

The apartment was cold when she entered, a late May wind rattling her windows slightly. She set her bags down on the kitchen counter, along with a thick sheaf of papers, the sum total of all law enforcement knew about William Lewis. It was absurd, to know this much about a person and still have them escape scot-free, to have them wriggle through the cracks due to a combination of ingenuity and sheer dumb luck.

She'd taken the file meaning to review it at home, in some passive aggressive protest of Cragen telling her to relax, but now she thought she'd just take a shower and go to bed. She'd look over it tomorrow, knowing if she started tonight, she wouldn't be able to sleep. Maybe with a clear mind she'd be able to find something they could use. Or maybe she'd just be wasting her time. She never knew anymore.

A noise like a sigh jolted her out of her thoughts, and she glanced into the darkness of her apartment. She tried to think if she hadn't made plans with Brian and simply been too distracted to remember. She didn't think so, but it wouldn't have been the first time.

"Hello?" she called, already half forming an apology in her head.

Before she could blink, William Lewis himself stepped out of the shadows, gun cocked and pointing at her head.

"Welcome home, Detective Benson," he said, with a smile like a cat that's cornered a mouse.

She froze for a crucial moment, mind stuttering in panic, as he stepped forward, brushing the gun across her throat like a caress. As she stared at him, he grabbed her arm and spun her around, pushing her further into the apartment.

"You seemed so interested in what happened to poor Ms. Parker," he whispered, breath tickling her ear. The cold barrel of the gun pressed into the back of her neck. "I thought it was only right to find you and discuss it further."

He stopped suddenly, and threw her to the ground. The burst of pain cleared her mind, and strangely enough, reduced her panic. He may have gotten the drop on her this once, but he was still just a perp, and she had dealt with hundreds of them already. Most of them were in jail or dead, and she was still here. Lewis was a bump in the road, was all, and she pushed herself to a sitting position and faced him with new defiance.

He didn't waste any time. "Take off your clothes," he said, still smiling.

Olivia didn't move. She knew he wasn't going to shoot her unless he felt threatened. That would take away his fun.

His smile faded. "Do what I say, detective."

She didn't blink. "Or what?"

His face darkened in rage, and he moved towards her, still pointing the gun at her head. She waited until he was close and then lunged for the weapon, her fingers scrabbling at his hands. With a burst of adrenaline, she yanked it out of his grip, but it fell to the ground with a clatter, sliding several feet. She whirled around and reached out her hand for it, but Lewis yanked her back by the hair and she let out a yelp. Instinctively, she kicked his knee and he released her with a growl of pain. She lunged towards the gun again, her fingers brushing the plastic of the grip, but Lewis stomped on her fingers and kicked it under the couch.

She hissed in pain but managed to stumble away before he could hit her again. She stood, nursing her bruised fingers, and they stared at each other, at a momentary impasse. They were both weaponless now, but was that was small comfort. He was well-muscled from years of manual labor, and practiced in subduing victims. She wasn't sure she could take him in a fair fight. His gun was inaccessible, hers was on the kitchen counter, and to get to it, she'd have to get past him.

She looked him in the eye and held up her hands slightly in a disarming gesture, trying to subtly edge past him.

"Let's talk about this. It doesn't have to be this way."

"Oh, I think it does."

He lunged for her again, but she was ready this time, dancing back out of his reach, then bolting past him, eyes intent on her gun. But he managed to catch a handful of her hair as she passed, pulling her back again, and she let out a cry of pain and frustration, her fingernails clawing at his arms.

Lewis threw her to the ground and kicked her hard in the stomach, again and again, and she fell to the side and curled up against the pain, trying to shield herself from the blows.

Lewis took the opportunity to pin her to the ground, facedown, one hand gripping her wrists, his knees on her legs.

"This could have been easy or hard, sweetheart," he said softly. "And you just chose hard."

The clink of metal behind her sent a chill down her spine, and she could hear the smile in Lewis's voice as he spoke. "I took a look around in your room while I was waiting. Came across these. Tell me, detective, are these work-issue? Or... recreational?"

Olivia felt the cold bite of handcuffs around her wrists and she cursed herself. He hadn't had a gun on her for several minutes now, and she hadn't even called for help. She tried to make up for it by giving the most earsplitting scream she could manage, tinged with genuine terror. The last time she had felt metal around her wrists, things had gone very badly indeed, and she refused to let herself think of what might happen now.

Lewis reacted instantaneously, flipping her over and pressing his hand against her throat hard enough to cut off her oxygen.

"Shut up," he hissed, as she tried to gasp for air. He didn't remove his hand, and she began to thrash beneath him in earnest, trying to buck him off as her body reacted to the oxygen deprivation with animalistic panic. Lewis watched her struggle, unyielding, smiling his boyish smile.

Her vision was going dark around the edges. She had time to wonder whether she'd misjudged his unwillingness to kill her, before everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

_Time to wake up, sweetheart_.

The voice seemed to be coming from a distance, and Olivia tried to turn away, go back to sleep, but she couldn't move. Her throat was sore and she couldn't breathe through her mouth. Suddenly panicked, she clawed her way back to consciousness, opening her eyes in time to see William Lewis tip something like a soda can over her head. She gasped as the freezing liquid hit her hair, smelling like alcohol and sweetness, then flinched as Lewis threw the empty can at her. He smirked as it hit her chest, but said nothing, walking away and looking around her apartment with apparent interest.

She used the reprieve to take stock of her situation. Her hands were still cuffed, and there was tape over her mouth. Her legs were taped to the legs of a chair, tightly enough that they were already starting to feel uncomfortable. There was still silence from the neighbors, meaning none of them had heard the struggle. On the other hand, her clothes were still on, and the clock told her she hadn't been out for long - a couple minutes at most. It wasn't much, but it was something.

She took a shaky breath through her nose, and tried to mentally steel herself for pain. At this point, she knew the chances of her escaping unscathed were slim to nil. He was going to hurt her, and badly. How badly depended on circumstance. Best case scenario, he'd get careless early on and she could get out with relatively little damage. Worst case scenario - well, Brian was supposed to meet her for lunch at one o'clock, a little more than twelve hours from now.

From where she was sitting, twelve hours seemed like a lifetime.

Still, it was shorter than what Alice Parker had to go through, and he probably wouldn't kill her - not after just twelve hours. She would endure, and she would live, and she would look him in the eye in the courtroom and smile when they finally decided to lock him away.

Lewis's voice jerked her out of her thoughts. "Nice gun," he said, now rummaging through the things she had set down in the kitchen. "The little badge is a nice touch." He stuck it in his waistband and started rummaging through her purse. The jingle of keys made her look away. There was no point in torturing herself psychologically before he even got the chance.

Unfortunately, the movement seemed to catch Lewis's attention.

"Are you scared, sweetheart?"

Olivia didn't turn, but she still heard the unmistakable flick of a lighter. She stiffened, trying to control her breathing.

Lewis's footsteps drew closer, creaking on the floor with agonizing slowness. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke drifted towards her, and she prayed that someone would smell it, call in a complaint. He finally stopped in front of her, looking her over. He pulled her gun out of his waistband, lifting her chin with it almost gently, so that her eyes met his. The gun trailed down her neck, to the edge of her shirt, and she nearly flinched back, before reminding herself not to give him the satisfaction.

He smiled down at her. "You're so good at putting on a brave face. But I can see the fear in your eyes. And you know what? That fear is smart."

He jabbed the lit cigarette at the side of her breast, through her shirt, grinding it in until it was extinguished, and she choked back a shriek of pain. It hurt more than she would have imagined, a sharp, bitter pain that lingered almost as strongly after he took it away.

Lewis smirked and relit the cigarette, drawing in a deep breath before blowing the smoke in her face. Olivia turned her head and tried not to breathe it in or cough, not wanting to further restrict her already limited air supply.

"That was just a warm up," Lewis said, almost cheerfully. He smoked the rest of the cigarette as he watched her try to collect herself, before putting it out on her other breast. She wasn't able to hold back a small cry of pain this time, and Lewis let out a laugh.

"I hope that's not the best you can do, Detective. We've still got a long way to go."

He returned to the kitchen, turning his attention back to her things. He rifled through the thick folder that she had left on the counter and grinned at her.

"Is this my case file, sweetheart? I'm flattered. You and your team missed a couple of my adventures, but you got most of the better ones. It's a pity, in a way. It won't be as much fun for you, if it's not a surprise. I might have to think of something new. Or maybe not. I know what I like."

The sound of cabinets opening made her cringe, and she jerked at her bonds, trying desperately to find some leeway. She heard a pan clanging down on the stovetop, the soft rhythmic click of a gas stove trying to light followed by the whoosh of flames. The tape on her legs wouldn't budge, and her wrists already hurt from where the handcuffs had dug into the skin, and all she could think, over and over again, was that there had to be an out, had to be a way for her to escape before he could hurt her enough to change her forever.

Keys clattered down into the pan, one by one, and she'd never heard a more terrifying sound. She gave one final jerk of her handcuffs, then stilled, giving up. It was too late to prevent this. She was better off saving her strength.

After what seemed like an age, Lewis's footsteps approached her again. She made herself look up. He was holding a frying pan, containing her keys and a small paring knife. Lewis crouched in front of her, watching her face, gauging her emotions. She could feel the heat emanating from the pan, though it hadn't yet touched her.

"Are you ready?" he asked softly. Suddenly, he reached out and yanked down the front of her shirt, hard enough that some of the stitching on the back tore open. Olivia immediately forgot everything she'd told herself about saving her strength, and she shrieked through her gag and threw herself backwards, hard enough that the chair rocked on its legs.

Lewis immediately let go of her shirt, and backhanded her, hard enough that she saw stars. He jerked her head back by her hair until she met his eyes.

"Fighting only makes it worse, sweetheart." He was smiling, enjoying himself. She was giving him what he wanted, and she hated herself for it. She shook her head and tried to pull herself out of his grip, for all it made her scalp throb in agony. Lewis tugged back harder until she stilled.

"Okay, how about this? You be good and hold still, and I'll leave your clothes on... for now. If not, well, that's fine with me too."

Olivia stared at his face, trying to read him, figure out his mood. This was a torture technique, she knew. Get the victim to give up something small, so that when you asked for bigger and bigger things, they'd find it a little easier each time. How could she give in, this early on? Then again, fighting him on this wasn't helping anything, not even her pride. The thought of him stripping her down was terrifying and humiliating in equal measure, and every minute she could delay that was a minute closer to escape or rescue. But what made her think that he'd even do what he said?

As if he could read her thoughts, Lewis released her hair, then stroked it softly. "I always keep my word, Detective. I can promise you that."

She lowered her head in defeat, cheeks red with shame and embarrassment, and Lewis laughed. This time, when he pulled down her shirt, and then her bra, she flinched, but didn't struggle.

"Good girl," Lewis cooed, and suddenly there was a burst of agony on her right breast, and she clenched her fists, bit back a scream, and endured. It was worse than the cigarettes, but not by much. She would live.

Now Lewis stood up, walked behind her. He pushed her hair gently to one side, caressing her neck. She shivered. She didn't know what was worse, the pain, or the sick parody of intimacy in his little touches. The fierce blaze of anguish on the back of her neck as Lewis used another key gave her the answer.

He was deliberate, unhurried. He'd watch her face every time he burned her, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. When he used up everything he'd heated, he went back to the stove, his steps measured. He seemed to enjoy the anticipation as much as the act itself. In between, sometimes he'd smoke, and when he finished, he'd put the cigarettes out on her arms or wrists. All the other burns were under her clothes. She was grateful to be wearing them, but the feeling of the cloth brushing her wounds every time she moved was a steady, thrumming pain.

She lost count of the specific burns after seven. She didn't start crying out regularly until after Lewis's third trip back to the stove. Staying silent would have taken self-control she didn't have any more, worn away by a haze of exhaustion and agony. She didn't try too hard, anyway, hoping someone, anyone, would hear, sense something wrong. Lewis didn't seem to mind. Most of the noise was caught behind the tape, and no one seemed to be awake to hear.

When he started burning areas he'd branded already, she finally managed to scream loud enough to worry him, and he scowled and kicked her chair over.

"I expected better of you, Detective."

She barely heard. The shock of hitting the ground caused all her wounds to flare up in a hot white sheet of agony, and she hyperventilated, the world going dark again for the second time in hours.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Olivia drifted through the darkness for a while, coming back to awareness in stages. First she felt movement - she was being moved. Then the smell of cigarette smoke. Then the feeling of pain, everywhere. Then-

Something heavy hit the ground right in front of her face, and she jerked back into awareness with a gasp.

"Hey, there she is."

Lewis's face swam in and out of focus, seemingly miles above her. His lips were moving, but she couldn't make sense of the words. Her head ached, and she tried to bring her scattered thoughts into some kind of order. She felt like she'd been out longer this time, though there was no way to be sure. She was lying on the ground and her legs were untied, an observation that filled her with terror. Normally, having use of her legs again would be a good thing, but she couldn't think of why he would have untied her, not unless -

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lewis grabbed her, sat her back on the chair with a grunt of effort. She stared stoically away from him, then flinched back with a noise of protest as he touched the gun between her legs.

"Oh, come on, don't be shy." He tugged her hair lightly and she jerked away. "We're past that. You've been so sweet when you were knocked out."

She rolled her eyes at him in an exaggerated show of defiance to try and hide her fear. What had he done to her when she was unconscious? She didn't feel any pain or wetness between her legs, but that might not mean anything. It wasn't his MO to rape women when they were unconscious, but then again, how much did they really know about him? It hadn't been enough to put him away.

His voice brought her back to the present. "Another drink?" He tilted a bottle of liquor at her.

She glared at him, and he grinned back.

"Oh, why don't I take off that tape so you can say yes?"

She nodded. Being able to talk would be another weapon in her arsenal, and breathing freely again after all these hours would be a relief.

He moved forward, pressing the gun against her face, and she flinched back.

"One thing," he said. "Scream again, and I'll shove your own gun down your throat."

He ripped off the tape with more force than necessary, and she spat at him, unable to stop herself. It was stupid to antagonize him, she knew, but anger was better than fear.

"You know what?" she whispered contemptuously. "Shoot me."

Lewis seemed unbothered by her small act of defiance, and his grin didn't waver as he wiped his face, licking his fingers clean. "That's the endgame, sweetheart. We've got a lot of shock and awe to go before that."

She'd looked away in disgust when he'd licked his fingers, but he grabbed her face and jerked it upwards, bringing the bottle of alcohol towards her mouth. She couldn't hold back another little cry of protest. She knew he drugged his victims, and losing control of herself right now would be very bad. A second's delay in her thoughts or actions could be the difference between getting out and dying here, and alcohol would lessen her chances significantly.

She was saved by her phone going off, and they both froze, staring at it until it went silent. Lewis let go of her and went over to pick it up, as Olivia's heart leapt in her chest. It had to be Brian. She wasn't sure what time it was, but the sky through the cracks in her curtains showed the barest hint of light. It would be morning soon. Brian wasn't due until after noon, but the walls in her apartment weren't that thick. With more people awake, someone was bound to hear something, notice something was wrong.

"That's probably my boyfriend," she said, surprised by how calm her voice sounded. "He's NYPD, he's on his way over here now."

"Boyfriend, huh? Does he have keys?"

"Yes, he does."

"It's funny that I don't see much of his stuff around," Lewis drawled, now holding her phone to his ear. "One robe in the bathroom, one toothbrush." He gave her a look, half threatening, half amused. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

She took a breath and tried a different tack. "Let's think about what you're doing, now."

His smile made her shiver. "Oh, I'm thinking about it."

"You walk out that door right now, no one will know anything happened to me."

"What about that pert little detective, the blonde one, huh? You don't think she'll notice all the bruises, the cuts?"

"Cab stopped short, I hit my face on the divider."

"What about this?" He walked over and abruptly pulled at her shirt, and she cried out as cloth rubbed against her wounds and they flared up in agony again. "What about these burns, huh? She's like a dog with a bone, that one."

"So what?" she whispered desperately. "You've done far worse and gotten away with it. Your lawyer friend, the redhead, she'll accuse the NYPD of framing you after the trial."

He shot her a cocky grin. "Mistrial."

"Lewis," she said, trying to project some authority into her voice. "Get the hell out of New York. You walk out that door right now, we'll pretend this never happened."

"You'd pretend this never happened, would you?" His voice was mocking, and he reached over and jerked her head back by the hair. "You're lying." He was no longer smiling, his face half in shadow. He'd never looked more menacing, and Olivia felt tendrils of fear worming their way back into her psyche. He tugged her hair again for good measure as she bit back another cry of pain. Then he let her go, wandering off again.

She glared after him, her scalp aching. It was only a half-lie, anyway. It was true that if he'd taken the offer and walked out the door, the first call she would have made would have been her squad, telling them to come and arrest him. However, if there'd been some kind of divine auditor that made people keep their word, she'd have taken the deal in a second, lied her ass off to the team for as long as necessary. Anything to make this end.

"There's something I think you should hear." He walked behind her, holding her phone, and she watched him with growing trepidation. If he wanted her to hear something, it couldn't be good news, at least for her.

Brian's voice came through the speakers. "Hey Liv, it's me. Uh, look, I know we were talking about getting together..."

She listened to the message, heart sinking with every word, almost oblivious to Lewis running his fingers through her hair. Brian wasn't coming. He'd been given a double shift, unexpectedly. Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised, he'd been complaining about them recently. But without him, it'd be another two days before anyone thought to look for her.

Two days. No one was coming to help her. Escaping now was up to her, and her alone, and right now, the prospect looked grim. Still, she had to try.

"Guess he's not coming," Lewis said, almost cheerfully.

"Billy," she said, as gently as possible, the way she'd talk to a skittish victim. "I'm offering you a way out."

This only seemed to enrage him. It was amazing to see his face transform, from sunny choirboy when he was amused, to a threatening mask when he was angry. He pulled out the gun, pointed it at her head.

"You're still bargaining with me? Really? We're past that."

Olivia threw all caution to the wind. "I'm an NYPD detective," she said coldly. "My partner, my squad, the entire department will hunt you down. You think you've put people through hell? It will rain back down on you."

Lewis regarded her with something like curiosity, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. They stared each other down for a moment, neither of them making a move. Finally he shrugged, confidence in his movements.

"You know what? Let it rain."

Before she could react, he brought the gun crashing down on her head, and the world went dark again.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Olivia drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. She managed to raise her head long enough to see Lewis throw her own sheets over her body, his lips moving, saying something she couldn't hear over the pounding in her skull. The next time, she felt herself being carried. Her vision was obstructed, but she could feel herself being jolted, like they were moving down steps. She came to something like full awareness when she felt herself being thrown down on something hard, sliding a couple inches, causing some of the deeper burns to tear open, and she groaned in pain.

She opened her eyes and realized in horror that she was in the trunk of a car. Lewis stared down at her speculatively, then slowly peeled off the tape from her mouth.

"I have something for you," he said softly. In his hands, he held two pills and the bottle of whiskey. "I have plans today, so I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

She tried to turn away, to scream for help, but her head hurt too much. Lewis forced her mouth open, pushing the pills close enough to the back of her throat that she gagged. He followed it with a mouthful of liquor, then covered her mouth and nose with his hands.

"Get it down, Detective," he said calmly. She struggled against his hands for a moment, then gave up and swallowed. Some of the bitter liquid went down her windpipe, and she coughed violently, her whole body shaking. Lewis watched her dispassionately until the coughing fit passed, then replaced the tape.

"Sweet dreams." He slammed down the lid of the trunk, leaving her in darkness. A moment later, she heard the door slam and the car start. She lay still for a moment, heart and head pounding, too drained to move. She wondered how many times someone could fall unconscious before getting permanent brain damage, and she suspected the number wasn't high. She tried to feel around for some kind of release for the trunk, but movement sent lancing pain through her head. Giving up, she lay still, listening to the rumble of the engine.

She lay this way for some time, lulled into placidity by the familiar noises of the road. Her head slowly started to feel better, or maybe those were the drugs taking effect. She would have appreciated them, but they made the world waver, the vague shapes within the darkness of the car trunk growing less and less distinct. Her eyes were starting to drift close when she realized with sudden dismay that she felt nauseous. She shouldn't have been surprised. Two unknown pills with alcohol - her body was bound to reject it. Unfortunately, throwing them up was not an option right now.

She tried to wake herself up, remind herself that could not under any circumstances allow herself to vomit. She'd seen victims that died this way, thrown up while gagged and had their own vomit block their airways. An ADA had died this way a few years ago, and she had no desire to follow the same path. Unfortunately, her body wouldn't seem to listen, and she retched a little before managing to suppress it, but she could taste bile at the back of her throat.

She fought with herself for the longest time, struggling to make her body obey her even as her eyelids grew heavier. The nausea finally subsided as the car stopped and the engine fell silent. She heard voices talking nearby, and she knew this would be the time to kick the trunk, call out for help, but she couldn't make her limbs move. Her eyes closed, and she drifted back into darkness with some sense of relief.

Her dreams were strange and vibrant but oddly calm. Cragen and her mother wandered in and out, not speaking, not looking at her. Fin and Munch bantered in the squad room, their voices distorted, their words nonsense. An long line of perps paraded past, bargaining or threatening or pleading, depending on their nature. Lewis was at the end, smiling at her.

_You should be so lucky,_ he whispered.

Then they were back in the interrogation room again, and she tried to ask him about his victims, but Lewis and his lawyer ignored her, talking brightly about dinner and plans.

"You're a sweet boy, Billy," Amaro said, in the voice of an old woman, and Olivia tried to turn to him incredulously, ask how he could fall for this, but her head was too heavy, and the world was moving again.

Suddenly, Elliot stood in front of her, clear and vivid in a way that Amaro or the lawyer had not been. Then again, he was always vivid in her mind - even after two years without seeing him, she knew his face better than she knew her own. He was dressed in his usual tie and dress shirt with the sleeves half rolled back, and he wore the cocky half-smile that he always had when they disagreed and he thought he had the right of things.

"So you let him get the drop on you. So what? He's just another scumbag. You've dealt with worse."

She tried to shake her head, tell him that Lewis had already hurt her, deeply and fundamentally, in a way that none of the perps who had taken a swing at her over the years, or even Harris, had managed to do. He'd tortured her in her own home, scarred her body in ways she knew wouldn't fade, won every skirmish they'd had easily, with a contemptuous curl of his lips. And now that she was tied up in a car, driving further and further away from rescue, she could admit, if only to herself and maybe the echo of her old partner, that she was terrified and couldn't see a way out.

Elliot frowned. "Don't let him fool you, Liv. He's a foot taller and has a gun, but he still has to drug you, cuff your hands. Deep down, he's weak, and you're not. You've only lost when you think you've lost."

She was still tempted to disagree, but already he was fading away, growing less distinct. Olivia blinked, then opened her eyes for real. She looked around, disoriented. Everything was pitch black, and she wondered for a panicked moment if she'd been blinded by the head trauma. But when she blinked again, she could see a faint outline of light above her head. She was still in the trunk, but the car was no longer moving.

Immediately, she kicked at the sides of the car and screamed for help through her gag. Both noises seemed to be swallowed by the stillness of the air around her, and she stopped, listened for voices or footsteps, anything to indicate someone had heard her. Silence was the only response. She shook her head, trying to clear away the residual grogginess from the drugs. She needed to stay calm, think like a detective.

She closed her eyes, reopened them, then looked around the car more carefully. Newer cars were supposed to have a button to release the trunk lid from within the trunk, but if this car had one, she couldn't see it in the darkness. Even if she found it, she wouldn't get far anyway, not with her hands and legs restrained. A spare tire lay near her head, a patterned outline in the darkness.

She raised her head to look at it more carefully, noting the tire's valve stem jutting out on the side closer to her. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she maneuvered her head over the small space above the tire, until her necklace caught on the tip. She jerked her head backwards, and the gold chain broke with a small snap, then slithered into the tire.

Olivia lay back down, breathing hard. Moving around had been more difficult than expected, made worse by her restricted airway. But now, if her team got this far, they'd know she'd been in this car. They'd know she'd been alive. They could use it -

_They'll use it to reconstruct the timeline in your murder investigation,_ whispered a cynical voice in her head, but she quashed the thought.

Part of her felt a strange temptation to close her eyes, sink back into unconsciousness, maybe talk to dream-Elliot again, but the rest of her knew that would be foolish. She cursed her unconscious mind for bringing him up. She hadn't thought about him for weeks now, a new record. Of all the people who could help her now, Elliot wasn't one of them. Not anymore, anyway.

She settled on kicking the side of the car every so often, not enough that she'd exhaust herself, but enough that someone might hear. She didn't bother trying to yell. Her throat was dry and painful, and she couldn't make much noise even if she wanted.

After some time - she didn't know how long - she heard the rasp of footsteps outside, and she redoubled her kicks to the trunk, her heart beating faster. If this was Lewis, he would doubtlessly be angry, but if it was someone else, this could signal the end of her ordeal.

The footsteps stopped close by, and the trunk lock clicked as it opened. Olivia squinted, the dim light stabbing at her eyes after so long in darkness. Lewis stared down at her, face expressionless, and her heart dropped.

"You're awake, I see." He was holding a kitchen knife idly in his hands as he spoke, and he brought it down suddenly. Olivia closed her eyes and flinched back, but he only cut through the tape on her legs, before hauling her out of the trunk. Her legs were stiff after hours of inaction, and they shook beneath her. She would have fallen, but Lewis hauled her back up by her arm, gripping it harder than necessary. He said nothing, but his look of amused contempt tore at her pride.

They'd parked in front of a house, walls covered with patterned stone, with a neatly manicured lawn that screamed suburban middle class. The bit of light she'd seen coming through the cracks in the trunk had come from a light on their garage, rather than the sky, and it was well past sunset now. Olivia knew that Lewis liked to take his victims to abandoned houses, but this place looked far from abandoned. The realization made her heart sink. This couldn't be good.

The interior of the house was cheerily modern, decorated with knickknacks and picture frames, smelling faintly of potpourri. It contrasted starkly with the mess on the floor, with lamps and furniture overturned, delicate vases smashed. She thought she heard a whimper as they passed the kitchen, but Lewis led her past it, further down the hall. They stopped in front of a small bathroom.

"Do you need to go?" he asked, mock-solicitously.

She nodded, her eyes downcast. She did, badly. However, the glint in Lewis's eyes suggested to her that this was going to be an ordeal as well.

He pushed her into the bathroom, flipping the light switch as they passed. Inside, Lewis reached for her belt, and she threw herself backwards hard enough to hit the wall, shaking her head desperately. He looked at her, amused.

"It's this way or nothing, Detective. You can piss yourself if you want, but I don't think it'll help you."

She stared at him, pleading with her eyes for him to give her some kind of privacy, anything, but he smiled and shook his head. She weighed the relative humiliation of what Lewis wanted against the indignity of wetting herself, then nodded, closing her eyes in defeat.

Lewis laughed. He unbuckled her belt, slowly pulling down her pants and then underwear, and though she looked determinedly away, she could feel his gaze sweep her body. He wiped her clean when she was done, and his fingers lingered between her legs longer than necessary. She bit back a sob, face crimson with shame.

He re-dressed her without comment, even taking time to wash his hands before pulling her back into the hallway and into a living room. She scanned the room as they walked, eyeing the fallen furniture and smashed flowerpots, looking for anything that could help her. He finally sat her down on a sofa across from a television. He righted a chair for himself to sit across from her, then leaned over and peeled the tape from her mouth.

She didn't waste any time. "Where are we?" Her voice was cracked and hoarse, but at least she could talk again.

Lewis shot her a sunny smile. "We're in the house of Dorothy and Philip Mayer. Parents of the charming Vanessa Mayer."

"That's a hell of a way to repay your lawyer, after all she's done for you."

"Oh I haven't hurt them too much. Yet. I just thought this would be a good place to stop for a while. It's not quite perfect, though. The neighbors are close enough to hear screaming." The gun was suddenly under her chin, pushing her head back. "I don't suggest you try it, by the way."

She glared at him, saying nothing.

Lewis tucked the gun back into his waistband, then turned on the TV.

"I noticed something today," he said, looking back at her. "Thought you might be interested."

They'd hit the start of the 11 o'clock news. The anchorman was frowning sternly over something about Congress, followed by a story about a natural disaster in the Midwest. Olivia frowned, wondering why Lewis thought this would matter to her, when it hit her. A kidnapped NYPD detective would have been huge news. If their lead story was about Congress, it could only mean she hadn't been reported missing. Her team wasn't about to jump in and rescue her, because they hadn't even started looking.

Lewis watched her face fall, and he grinned and shut off the television. "It's been a day, and no one's even noticed you're gone. That's just sad. You might be a bitch, but I thought there might be _someone_ who gave a damn about you. "

The taunt hit closer to home than she would have liked, and she had to remind herself that it was a perfect storm of bad luck that kept anyone from noticing her disappearance, rather than indifference. Still, this confirmation that rescue was not forthcoming scared her as much as anything so far.

_You haven't lost until you think you've lost_.

Olivia kept her head bowed, as if in despair, but her eyes darted around the room clinically, analyzing it. When Lewis jerked her to her feet, she went along meekly, without resistance.

Halfway across the room, she pretended to stumble, and Lewis caught her with a growl of annoyance. She took that moment to slam her body against his, as hard as she could. He fell onto an overturned table, which broke with a snap of wood. She fell with him but her body was cushioned by his, and she disentangled herself as he groaned with pain. There was no point in running, not with her hands cuffed behind her back. She had to take him out right now.

She kicked at his face, hoping to take out an eye or knock him out. She caught him on the chin, and she could hear his teeth click together as his head snapped back. Unfortunately, it wasn't hard enough. He caught her leg on her next kick and pushed her away from him. He got to his hands and knees more quickly than she could have imagined, then lunged for her, pinning her down. She cried out, and he hit her across the face, hard enough that she saw stars.

"That was a big mistake, Detective," he panted. One hand held her face still, the other dug into one of the burns on her side until she screamed, and she could feel warm blood trickling down her skin.

"Shut up."

He hit her again and got to his feet. He dragged her to the kitchen by her hair, all pretense of gentleness gone. He sat her down on a wooden dining room chair and immediately started securing her ankles to the legs of the chair. The tape was uncomfortably tight again, but she knew better than to protest.

A whimper from the other side of the room caught her attention, and she looked up to see an older man hog-tied and gagged under the kitchen table. With a sudden rush of horror, she realized why Lewis had brought her in here.

"Lewis," she said desperately. "Don't - "

"I said, shut up," he snapped.

He finished with the rope, and headed to the table, dragging out Vanessa Mayer's father by the collar. His eyes glinted with malice. "I wasn't going to hurt him. But you had to play games, didn't you?"

"Lewis, please. It was me, not him. If you have to hurt someone, hurt me."

"Oh, I plan to." He shook Mr. Mayer hard enough that his chin hit his chest. "Tell him it's going to be okay."

"Please..."

"SAY IT," he screamed.

Olivia took a shaky breath and looked at the older man, tears in her eyes. "It's going to be okay," she whispered.

Abruptly, Lewis was calm again. "Good," he said. He tore off another piece of duct tape and placed it over Philip Mayer's nose.

"NO," Olivia shrieked, struggling against her bonds.

Lewis pulled out the gun and pointed it at her head. "You get to watch him die, detective. That's your punishment. Scream again, or look away, and we can try again with Mrs. Mayer, upstairs."

Olivia swallowed her tears and made herself look at Mr. Mayer, who was staring back at her through his shattered glasses, eyes pleading. His face was already turning red.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice catching. "I'm so, so sorry."

His face was purple now, and he rocked back in forth in panic, trying fruitlessly to escape his bonds. Olivia didn't dare to avert her eyes, but she pleaded with Lewis, softly, desperately.

"Please, I'm sorry for what I did. I can make it up to you, I can - please, he's just an old man. If you let him go now, he'll probably die from the shock anyway."

Lewis laughed. "True, but I prefer guarantees."

Mayer was lying on the floor now, shaking in some kind of convulsion, his head whipping back and forth, his skin turning blue.

"Please," Olivia whispered. "I'll do anything."

This caught Lewis's attention, and he walked over to her, jerking her chin to face him. "It's too late for him, anyway. But you can keep begging if you want. I don't mind."

He made her watch until Mayer's shaking finally stopped, until he lay still on the ground, until his expression of fear and horror finally settled back into the neutral cast of death. She was crying by the end, and Lewis wiped away her tears, smiling gently.

He crouched in front of her, making her eyes meet his. "Now," he said. "Poor Mr. Mayer may be dead, but Mrs. Mayer is not. I'm going to take a rest now. If you sit here and be good, if you don't try and escape, I won't kill her. If you do, if I see the chair has moved, if I find stretch marks on the tape, I will kill her, and it will make his death seem like a picnic. Understand?"

She nodded, tears in her eyes.

"Good." He kissed her chastely on the forehead, right on the wound from where he'd struck her with the gun. Then he left the room, flicking the lights off as he walked out.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Moonlight shone through the slats of the window blinds, illuminating the darkened kitchen with a somber blue glow. Olivia stared at the body of Vanessa Mayer's father long after Lewis's footsteps had faded away. She'd seen people die before - far more than anyone should - but she'd never been so helpless to do anything about it. His unseeing face was tilted towards her, as if in accusation, and no matter how she twisted in the confines her chair, he was always in her field of vision, like a specter of her guilt.

After a while, she realized she could no longer hear Lewis moving around the house. She wondered if this was a trick, or he had truly gone to sleep. Perhaps it was the latter. He had to have been up for 24 hours at least, and even Lewis couldn't stay awake forever.

Instinctively, she started pulling at her bonds, before stopping herself. If she tried to escape and failed, an innocent woman's death would be on her head. On the other hand, if she succeeded, this ordeal would be over for both of them. That had to be a risk worth taking. Beyond that, she had no proof that Mrs. Mayer was even alive - there'd been no sight nor sound of her since she came in.

Very cautiously, she rocked slightly in the chair. It seemed solid, made of hard oak wood, but it was at least a few years old, and it creaked a little when she moved. The tape around her legs was too thick for her to break, but the chair could be a weak point. After a couple hours of working at it, the joints could come apart, breaking the chair and freeing her legs. It wasn't a subtle plan. If Lewis walked in on her halfway, it'd be obvious what she'd been doing. Still, it was workable, albeit a long shot. She'd be willing to risk her life on it. But was she willing to risk Mrs. Mayer's?

Olivia closed her eyes and tried to summon up some sense of vindictiveness, reminding herself that without Vanessa Mayer, none of them would be here right now, and that she could hardly blame Olivia if she risked her mother's life trying to get them both out of here. But that was unfair. Olivia knew how it felt to be young and idealistic, how it felt to misjudge someone so very badly. And even if she could put some blame on Vanessa, her mother had done nothing wrong. Had she really fallen so far, that she'd be willing to sacrifice an innocent to save herself?

No. She couldn't. With that thought, she hung her head and consciously relaxed her muscles. Choosing not to fight was harder than anything she'd done so far, but if meant Lewis had one less victim, she didn't really have a choice.

The night seemed endless. The drugs had truly worn off by now, and she could feel every bruise and burn throb painfully with each beat of her heart. She tried halfheartedly to rest, but all that time unconscious in the car had left her feeling doggedly awake, and every time she her eyes started to close, her gaze would wander back to Mr. Mayer, and it jolted her awake again. She watched the hours tick by with agonizing slowness on the old kitchen clock, and every time an hour passed without Lewis's return, she wondered if she could have escaped by now, if only she'd tried.

The light outside the window slowly shifted to the gray sheen of early dawn. Some time later, Olivia even saw a morning jogger run by in a pink jumpsuit and white earbuds. It seemed absurd that normal life could go on when there was so much death and horror not twenty feet away, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it? Children were beaten to death in one apartment while geriatrics watched Jeopardy in the next. She just hadn't seen it from this side of the wall for a while. She was tempted to call out for help, but she doubted if the jogger could hear her through the windows and her ipod. Lewis was sure to hear though.

And speaking of Lewis - she could hear noises from the house again, the shuffling of footsteps, the whisper of running water. After a couple more minutes, he walked back into the kitchen, bright eyed, freshly shaven. He flipped the blinds closed, then turned to look at her. He said nothing for a moment, searching her face. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it, because his expression flickered with uncertainty for a moment, before he covered it up with his usual grin.

"Morning, sweetheart. How was your night?" He knelt by her feet, brushing his hands over the tape over her ankles, then trailing them slowly up her leg. Olivia stiffened, refusing to let herself react.

"I see you decided to behave yourself," he said, now grazing a thumb across her cheekbone. "I think that deserves a reward."

He stepped over Mr. Mayer's body and opened the fridge, pouring a large glass of orange juice. Olivia stared at it, trying not to let the need show in her eyes. Orange juice had never been her favorite drink, but right now, dehydrated and ravenous, she had never wanted anything more.

Lewis walked over holding the glass, but stopped a foot away from her.

"Would you like some?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she said, gritting her teeth.

He shook his head in disapproval. "Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners? Let's try that again."

She let out a breath, reminding herself that survival was more important than pride right now. "Yes, _please_," she managed to say, her voice level.

"Better. You can have this, but only if you take these first." He held out two pills in his hand. She looked at them and hesitated, then nodded slowly. He seemed to want to drug her before transporting her. This could be a sign that they were leaving, and the sooner they were out of here the better.

Lewis knelt down beside her, parting her lips with his fingers. He pushed the pills into her mouth, and she gagged, feeling the scarred pads of his finger brush against her tongue. He grinned at her, then finally raised the glass to her lips. The juice stung her lips and throat, but it tasted divine, taking the edge off her body's clamoring need for sustenance. She finished the glass, and Lewis wandered off into the rest of the kitchen, eating a more solid breakfast as she tried not to watch.

Finally, he walked over to her and cut through the tape over her legs with a knife. He yanked her up as her stiff joints groaned.

"Where are we going?" she asked, unable to help herself.

He smiled at her sweetly. "We're going to pay a visit to Mrs. Mayer."

Immediately, she tried to jerk out of his grip, heart pounding. "Lewis, you promised you wouldn't hurt her. You saw for yourself, I didn't try to escape."

"I said I wouldn't kill her, and I won't. I didn't say I wouldn't hurt her. Just consider it a little preview. She's a tough old lady. She'll probably survive."

"You bastard," she snarled, finally struggling against him again. "You incredible bastard. Can't get it up for a real woman, so you have to pick on old ladies? What's wrong? Can't handle someone who can fight back? Are you afraid of me, so you take it out on her?"

Lewis chuckled and taped her mouth again. "I'm glad you're so eager, but everything in its own time, sweetheart. Now come on."

He wrenched her into a bedroom, pushing her down onto a chair. Mrs. Mayer lay tied, spread eagled on a bed, mouth gagged, stripped to a bra and underpants. She looked terrified and cold, but otherwise seemed unharmed. She must have been there all night, Olivia realized in horror. She fought Lewis as he tied her legs, but to no avail.

"We're going to play a little game, Detective," Lewis said, standing to face her. "You get to watch. Every time you close your eyes or look away, I'll burn her. Do you understand me?"

Olivia glared at him and didn't reply. Lewis slapped Mrs. Mayer across the face, hard enough that her head snapped to the side and she gave a little whimper.

"Understand?" Lewis asked again. Olivia nodded, hating him and hating herself.

"Good," Lewis said. "Let's start then." He took out a cigarette and flicked open his lighter

It was worse than Olivia could have dreamed. The older woman cried and struggled as Lewis moved above her, brutality in every motion. The first time Olivia decided she couldn't bear it and squeezed her eyes shut, she was met with a strangled scream of pain. She jerked her eyes back open to find Lewis watching her, lit cigarette between his fingers, his rhythm uninterrupted.

"I wasn't joking, detective."

He came twice, and each time, Olivia hoped it would be over, but he merely took a break and started again. By the third round, Mrs. Mayer no longer struggled beneath him, and Olivia felt her eyes closing, drowsiness seeping through her brain. She shook herself awake, horrified, wondering how she could possibly feel tired while witnessing this. Then she remembered. The drugs. Lewis had been planning this from the start.

Even as she realized this, her eyes started closing again, and even hearing Mrs. Mayer's scream, she could barely pull them open again.

"Falling asleep already?" Lewis's voice sounded far away, and his features swam. "We're just getting started. Don't make this worse for her."

Her eyes closed four more times, and for the first three, she managed to pull them open at hearing the cries of pain, the world growing less distinct each time. The fourth time, she tried to open her eyelids, but her body would no longer obey her. She wondered if this meant she'd killed Mrs. Mayer too, before she slipped back into the now-familiar blackness.

* * *

The line between dreams and reality was less distinct this time. Sometimes she was alone in the car, and sometimes Mrs. Mayer screamed beside her, and sometimes Amaro and Rollins sat nearby, gazing at her with disappointment in their eyes. Lewis was driving, singing cheerily along with the radio, but every so often he was next to her too, searching her face for something she didn't understand. She was on the floor of the backseat, half covered by a sheet, her hands cuffed to the door. The sunlight stung at her eyes and the seams on the car seats seemed to dance and shift when she tried to focus on them, and she closed her eyes again, fighting off a wave of nausea. At least she didn't have to worry about throwing up now. There wasn't enough left in her stomach for that.

When she opened her eyes, the sky was dark, a single streetlamp visible in the distance. Her mouth and eyes were dry, painfully so. The world still spun and shifted, but at least she could almost focus now, think full thoughts before they drifted away. The car had stopped again, and Olivia felt a moment of distant panic, wondering if they'd arrived at another house with victims for Lewis to torture and kill. But no, it didn't look like a residential area - the buildings she could see were too large and utilitarian. They were in a parking lot - a strip mall maybe.

She was beginning to fall back asleep again, when the car door opened, yanking her wrist. She looked up and saw Lewis, his face strange and indistinct, holding a large brown bag.

"Hey, I'm back," he said. "I got some supplies. What, are you resting?"

He pulled her into a sitting position on the car seat, and the world spun even faster. He was careful to cuff her hands behind her back, and she spared a second of contempt that he was afraid to let her have use of her hands even when she was drugged half out of her mind.

"Man, I love hardware stores." His voice echoed strangely, and she had trouble focusing on his words. "I got a tarp, some rope, extra duct tape -" he grinned at her. "- some surprises for later, and some drinks. How does that sound?"

Lewis's idea of a surprise couldn't be good, but either the drugs or exhaustion had taken away her ability to feel fear at the moment, so she ignored him and tried to focus on clearing her head.

"If I take the tape off, will you be a good girl?"

She nodded desperately. Breathing freely was starting to feel like a luxury, and it wasn't as though she could do much right now, anyway.

He peeled the tape off slowly, and it tore at her chapped lips, but she was grateful anyway.

"Are you thirsty, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," she whispered.

Lewis reached down into the bag and pulled out a large bottle of vodka. Olivia groaned and turned her head away. With Mrs. Mayer dead or at least far away, he had no real hold on her, and she wasn't going to accept more drugs without a fight, not after last time.

"Hey," he snapped. "You don't get to say no anymore."

She ignored him, trying to wrench her head away, but without much strength behind her movements. Still, it was enough that Lewis reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle of water.

"All right," he said. "You have some vodka, and I'll give you some water. Okay?"

She wanted water so badly it hurt, but she still turned away in some dogged show of resistance. He pulled her face towards him anyway, shoving the bottle between her lips. The alcohol burned her dry throat agonizingly, but she forced herself to swallow, terrified that she would choke otherwise, and half of it still ran down her chin.

"Vicodin with sleeping pills, they give you dry mouth, right?"

"Water," she whispered, hating herself for begging, but unable to stop herself.

"I know, I promised. I'm a man of my word."

He only let her have a mouthful before pulling the bottle away again, and she stared after it desperately. It hadn't been enough, not by a mile.

Lewis ignored her, leaning back and staring into the distance. "I think we're going to find it soon," he said thoughtfully.

"Find what?"

"Someplace special."

He made as though to offer her water again, but pulled it away before she could drink. She stared at it with disappointment, her dry throat clicking when she swallowed. He poured the rest out on the ground, watching her with an expression that dared her to object. Slowly, he unstuck the tape from where it had fallen on the car seat, replacing it over her mouth, then kissing her through it, hard. She whimpered miserably in protest.

"One move, lights out." he said, watching her closely. "I'll do you cold."

He pushed her back to the floor and covered her carefully with the tarp before returning to the driver's seat. The engine rumbled back to life and Olivia lay still and closed her eyes, waiting for the alcohol to take effect. Maybe taking all these alcohol and drugs together would kill her. It would be a better death than what Lewis had planned.

They hadn't driven long when Olivia heard the whine of a siren, close behind them. She opened her eyes wide in sudden hope. It had to be her team. Or no - it couldn't be. There was only one siren, and if it had been her team, they'd have brought enough cars for a confrontation. This was probably just highway patrol. Still, a cop had finally noticed them. He was bound to figure out something was wrong.

She felt the SUV rumble to a stop, and Lewis shift the tarp to cover her head. He turned down the radio and glanced back at her.

"He's young," he said flatly. "One move and he's dead."

Olivia's eyes widened in mixed fear and hope. A rookie. In her experience, rookies were typically either careless or overzealous, and she prayed it would be the latter.

Gravel crunched as the officer approached the car, and she lay unmoving on the floor, hardly daring to breathe. She listened as they spoke, Lewis at his maximally charming, the officer sounding bored and relaxed. His voice was close - too close, and she mentally willed him to move back.

The conversation was routine until Lewis failed to produce his license, and Olivia could practically feel the officer's inrush of suspicion. She squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to hope.

The policeman's voice came again. "And what's that on the floor there? You been drinking?"

"What? Oh no, no Officer." Lewis was getting rattled now, too, and Olivia sensed what was about to happen.

_Move back_, she screamed in her head. _Call it in._

Light flashed past her vision.

"What have you got back there?"

"Where?"

There was the sound of flesh striking flesh, a brief struggle. Then a single gunshot. The meaty thump of a body hitting the ground. A moment of silence. Then Lewis snorted, sounding cheerful again.

"Too bad, huh? Wonder if he had kids? Probably not. He was practically a kid himself."

Her stomach clenched in grief for this nameless rookie officer, who'd died never knowing what he'd stumbled into. The car engine rumbled beneath her again, and they drove off into the night, leaving behind the crumpled body on the side of the road.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

They drove all night and much into the day. Lewis stopped several times, sometimes forcing more vodka down her throat, and sometimes walking around outside and getting back in, all without a word.

When he opened the passenger door for what had to be the fifth time, Olivia braced herself for more alcohol. But Lewis pulled her out of the car instead, and she staggered, her control over her limbs a shaky, tenuous thing. The bright sunlight stung at her eyes and sent lances of pain through her brain. She half-closed her eyes, but not before she saw the sandy expanse of a private beach and a solid gray beach house.

He pulled her inside and she didn't resist, her head pounding, barely able to stagger along beside him, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist. He dragged her into a bedroom, throwing her down hard on a bed as she cried out in pain. Her bladder felt oppressively full, and she realized in horror that she needed to use the bathroom again.

Lewis was facing away from her, fiddling with a roll of duct tape. "I gotta lose the car. Won't take me that long though." He ripped off a long strip, then turned to look at her, smiling. "You gonna miss me?"

She realized she couldn't hold it, not long enough to matter, and she whimpered, trying to get his attention.

He glanced at her and frowned. "Hm?"

She whimpered again, glancing at the bathroom in the corner of the room, hating herself for having to _ask_ for this violation, and not even in words.

Still, he seemed to get the picture. "Of course. It's been a long time. All that vodka, right?" He drew closer and cocked his head. "Come on. Let's go."

She tried to pull herself off the bed, push herself to her feet, but found that she couldn't. Her mind and her body seemed strangely disconnected, her limbs responding sluggishly, her muscles weak. Laboriously, she managed to pull herself a couple inches forward before collapsing back onto the bed. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, and she could see Lewis watching her struggle, his lips twisted in a half smile.

"Do you need help?" he whispered, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "I can help you."

He yanked her to her feet abruptly, pressing her against him, shoving the gun against her chin, even though she hadn't struggled. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the heat of his erection against her hip. She stilled, trying to control her breathing.

After a moment, he pushed her towards the bathroom, and she gave a tiny internal sigh of relief. The experience wasn't much easier than the last, but he didn't linger, seeming more hurried this time. Maybe he really was worried about the car.

When she was finished, Lewis pulled her back into the bedroom and threw her back on the bed again. He pinned her there, facedown, and she struggled weakly beneath him, convinced that this was it. But he only uncuffed one of her hands, pulling it towards the headboard. She let out a scream as her arm was pulled into a new position after hours of being locked behind her back, the joints stiff, the muscles rigid. Lewis looped the chain through the headboard, before wrenching her other arm up with an equal lack of gentleness, cuffing her again. He taped her legs together with cool efficiency, then tipped her a wink as he walked out the door.

"Be good," he said cheerfully. A couple moments later, she heard the front door slam, and she was left truly alone for the first time in days.

She lay still on the bed for several minutes, waiting for the pounding in her head to subside, fighting off alternating waves of terror and lethargy. Part of her mind screamed at her to try and escape, while another part pointed out that she was cuffed to a bed - there wasn't much she could do. She tugged tentatively at the metal bars of the headboard, but they seemed solid. They wouldn't be easy to break.

_So you're just going to lie here and wait for him to come back?_

No. She couldn't.

Carefully, she pulled herself towards the edge of the bed. Movement was easier this time, so maybe the drugs were wearing off a little. Even so, her options were limited.

She scanned the room carefully. It was pretty bare, two dressers, a lamp, a bookshelf, and a covered couch. Not much that would be useful as a weapon, even if she could free her hands. There were windows behind her, to either side, and she decided that was her best bet. If she could break one, someone might notice, come investigate. Even if not, sound would carry further. It could force Lewis to move her again. Every second he delayed was a second closer to someone finding her.

The window was too far for her to reach, so she carefully moved to the side of the bed and slid her legs off, trying to find traction on the floor with her heels. The exertion made her head spin, and she clutched the headboard and bowed her head until it subsided. Her movement and balance were restricted by the tape on her legs, but she managed to move outwards, pull hard on the bed.

It barely shifted. Either the metal frame bed was heavier than it looked, or she'd been significantly weakened by her ordeal. Probably both. She braced herself and tugged at it again. It moved a couple more inches with a groaning creak that made her teeth ache.

She was so focused on the bed that she didn't see Lewis come in, didn't notice him until he spoke.

"Look at you. Going somewhere?" He sounded almost amused

She stared up at him, eyes wide, breathing hard.

He stepped past her and tightened the cuffs on her wrists, hard enough that they cut into her already mangled skin. Then he picked up her legs, throwing her back onto the center of the bed.

"I told you I'd be right back," he snarled, as he yanked the duct tape from her mouth.

She pulled her head away and gasped for air, relieved that he hadn't reacted worse, frustrated that she had failed.

Lewis paced around the bed, taking in the room, excitement in his eyes.

"I'll cuff your hands, here," he said, brushing her fingers with his, and then touching the corners of the headboard. "Cuff your feet, here -" He walked to the other side of the bed and tugged at her legs -hard, and she couldn't hold back a cry of pain. The cuffs wrenched against her wrist, digging into the skin, and she thought she felt something come apart in the left joint, a harsh spreading ache. A small trickle of blood ran down her arm.

Lewis shook his head, looking impressed. "Oh man, a real old fashioned iron frame bed. This - I knew this place would be perfect."

She tried to ignore his words, breathe slowly and calm herself down. Her arms were stretched uncomfortably far, and she pulled herself towards the headboard, causing a new rush of pain through her wrist. It was sprained, if not broken.

He glanced around the room again, then looked at her. "Want me to burn your clothes off or cut them off?"

It was another mind game, and she didn't respond. But she couldn't prevent the sinking feeling in her stomach, and she took in another shaky breath.

Lewis didn't wait for an answer. "Scissors," he said brightly. "Need some scissors. There's gotta be some around here, right?"

He rummaged through the drawers haphazardly, and Olivia felt the panic bubbling up again, crowding out any rational thoughts.

"Oh, not in here, the kitchen." Lewis grinned at her, walking briskly out of the room.

Olivia took the opportunity to pull at the headboard with all her strength, wrist injury or no, hoping, praying, that something would give way. But it seemed as immovable as ever.

"Ooh, wait a second." Lewis's voice drifted in from the other room, and something in his tone made her stiffen, look up at the doorway. He walked back in, holding a small metal object as though it were a delicate flower. It took her a moment to recognize it as an old-fashioned can opener, two small curved blades glinting wickedly in the muted light.

He grinned at her. "That's pretty perfect."

She stared at him numbly. This was it. There were no other victims to distract him, no Fin to burst through the door. He'd rape her and then he'd kill her, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it.

Part of her had always suspected she'd die violently, that her life would be bookended by acts of senseless cruelty in some kind of act of divine continuity. She'd hoped her death would be more meaningful than this, but at least she could console herself with the thought that she'd be his last victim, one way or another. By choosing her, he'd doomed himself. His face would be all over the news, he'd no longer be able to sink back into anonymity, melt into the crowds and disappear the way he used to. It wasn't much, but it was all she had to hold on to.

The mattress dipped near her feet as Lewis pulled himself onto the bed, and Olivia shuddered and glanced away.

Perhaps her biggest regret was that she and Elliot had never made things right. She'd always assumed they'd have more time, that one day she'd see his name on her phone again, or his face in the crowd. She missed his steady gaze, his warmth at her back. Now her last memory of him would be the look of horror in his eyes as he realized he'd killed a seventeen year old girl. Maybe his last memory of her would be of her mutilated body in the morgue. It wasn't fair that things could end this way.

Lewis was watching her closely. "What's that look?" he asked, his tone misleadingly gentle. "Are you feeling sad, thinking about someone you're never gonna see again?" He tugged at the tape around her legs, then tore it down the middle with the blade of the can opener, as Olivia flinched and didn't answer. She tried to think of Elliot's smile, the sound of his voice, that look in his eye that he seemed to reserve solely for her.

"Mom? Dad? Boyfriend?" He ripped open the next piece of tape, pulling hard enough to hurt.

"No, huh? It's someone else." This time, he opened a tear down the leg of her pants, and she glanced at it and glanced away, panic swiftly overtaking her other thoughts. "Someone you would give _anything_ to see, just one more time."

He got off the bed and moved to her side, his breath tickling her face, stubble rubbing against her skin. "You're going to cry his name out, at some point," he said softly, kissing her arm, as she groaned and tried to move away. "They always do.

"Well, just try to put him out of your mind, okay? 'Cause you don't make it out of here alive."

It was confirmation of what she'd known all along, but it still terrified her to hear it. Part of her was tempted to accept it, to lay back and stop fighting, let him do what he wanted so that this would be over sooner. But no, she couldn't. If he killed her, Lewis would win permanently, and she couldn't accept that. Whatever he did to her, whatever she felt, every moment she was alive would be another chance to turn the tables. And what would Elliot say now? What would she herself tell any victim caught in this situation? Survive. Survive at any cost.

She finally turned and looked him in the eyes, trying to summon up something like a smile.

"You know, you might wanna keep me around. I know what you like."

Lewis looked amused at this turn of events. "Well, then you've been holding out on me."

"Yes, but that's what you want, isn't it? Hard to get? Making them beg you for it? Hm? I know how to get you off."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Kentucky, Alabama... I've seen the photos. I probably know more details about it than you remember."

"Ooh, I doubt that. You don't know the half of it."

"I've seen a lot of things," she whispered, "but I've never seen anything like this. You're not some punk."

His eyes were dark. "Don't try to play me."

She was losing him, she realized. She had to try a different tack, bring up specifics. "No, I'm not playing you. Because I know you don't like that. Those two girls in the cabin. You hung one by her arm in the closet, and you made her listen while you did the other one, for two days. Did you - did you even sleep?"

"You don't need sleep. Not after I get on a roll, you're going to find that out."

"When?"

"Now."

"Well then, you might wanna loosen these cuffs or take them off." Her voice was gentle. Wheedling.

Lewis tilted his head thoughtfully and glanced at her hands, seeming to consider it. "Yeah? Is that right?"

"Yeah. I know you like a struggle. You wanna show me how strong you are? Overpower me?" He was shaking his head but she pushed on. "Pin my arms behind my back?"

"No."

She stared at him through lowered lashes, half smiling in challenge. "Come on."

"No," he snarled. He lunged onto the bed, grabbing her face and prying her mouth open. He pulled the gun from his waistband, sliding it slowly between her lips until it brushed the edge of her throat. She could taste the acrid metal, and she gagged, letting out a small cry of horror.

Lewis watched her, his face a mask of cold anger. "You don't tell me what to do." He withdrew the gun, just as slowly, and Olivia drew a gasping, shuddering breath.

He was still pointing the gun at her face, inches away, his expression now of contemptuous patience. "Now you say..."

All reason had left her, all sense of pride, dignity. All she could think of was making it past the next few moments.

"I want to live," she sobbed. "I'll do anything, okay? Anything."

There was triumph in his eyes as his lips curled in a smile. "Yes, you will."

He got off the bed and grabbed a coil of rope from the brown paper bag. When he grabbed her ankle, she kicked at him, unable to stop herself. He dodged the blow and grabbed her leg, pinning it down and hitting it hard with the butt of the gun. She felt something crack and she screamed, going limp again.

"Try that again and I'll break that leg for real," Lewis panted. His tone was menacing but his face was still gleeful as he tied down her ankle.

For the first time in her life, Olivia truly gave up. She lay still as Lewis wrenched apart her legs, tying her other ankle tightly to the bedframe. She didn't struggle against him or claw at his eyes when he freed her hands briefly, only to bind them at the corners of the bed. And when Lewis finally finished and stepped back to admire his handiwork, she didn't bargain or plead, only stared stoically at the ceiling, determined to endure.

"Are you ready to get started?"


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Olivia lay still on the bed, limbs spread, trembling hard enough that her cuffs rattled against the bed frame. She pulled on them slightly to silence them, unwilling to tolerate this tangible symbol of her fear. She felt the mattress dip beneath her legs as Lewis climbed onto the bed and she turned her head to the side, unwilling to watch him directly, but unable to look away.

When he tugged at her belt buckle, she was unable to suppress a little cry of fear. Someone had to come by. A mailman, a gardener, someone who would notice that the house wasn't empty when it should have been. She felt her belt slide out from under her, and Lewis dropped it over the side of the bed, the buckle hitting the hardwood floor with a final-sounding clatter.

Lewis straddled her, and she could feel the heat of his body as he reached up to her shirt, placing the pointed blade of the can opener at the edge of the cloth near her neck.

Olivia couldn't stop herself. "Please," she whispered. "Don't do this."

Lewis only laughed, and he jerked his hand downwards, tearing her shirt in half down the middle. She glanced down at herself, then looked away. It was the first time she'd really seen herself since he'd started, and the sight made her cringe, her body a mess of burns and bruises.

Lewis repeated the process on her shirtsleeve, the blade hitting the skin this time, leaving a long, thin streak of red, like a dotted line made of blood. Next came a long tear down the side of her pants. Then, with an almost delicate flick, the straps of her bra.

By the end, she had a dozen new small cuts, and her clothes lay in tatters on the bedspread. She was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating. She closed her eyes as Lewis reached for his own belt. There was the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of cloth. The mattress shifted beneath her again. Then Lewis's voice.

"Eyes on me, detective."

When she refused to comply, he hit her across her face, brutally. "Why do you always make things hard for yourself?"

She forced herself to look at him, tasting copper, the world still spinning from his blow. He smiled at her, brushing a tendril of hair out of her face.

She cried out as he entered her, tearing through her dry entrance. Otherwise, she stayed silent, clenching her eyes shut again and flinching with every thrust. She felt as though she were crying but no tears came, and a small clinical part of her mind observed that she was probably too dehydrated.

She shuddered when he finished but otherwise didn't react. She barely had time to catch her breath before he started again. He was oddly gentle this time, stroking her between her legs before he entered, his rhythm slow. She cried silently as her body betrayed her, responding to his touch. Lewis laughed when she came, her back arching, fists clenched, her shame an almost physical thing.

"I'm glad you enjoyed that as much as me," he whispered, kissing her above her hipbone. "Are you going to thank me?"

When she remained silent, he put out his cigarette on her upper thigh, dangerously close to her folds.

The words burst through her lips almost against her will. "Th-thank you."

The third time, he blindfolded her with a torn strip of her shirt, leaving tiny burns and cuts when she least expected it, nipping at her shoulders, her breasts.

The fourth time, he took off the blindfold but gagged her instead, possibly because she'd started screaming, or possibly just out of sheer sadism. She suspected the latter. It was harder to breathe through the tape, and she felt a slow build of panic as she continually got just a little less air than she needed.

She spared half a thought to notice that the room was getting darker, the light from the window a dull orange and fading fast. How many hours had it been, she wondered, and how long could this last?

She felt Lewis grow soft inside her and he withdrew, finally climbing off the bed and buckling his pants. The room was nearly dark and he flicked on a lamp, the light making his body a hard-angled silhouette. He walked along the side of the bed, trailing two fingers along her skin. He finally bent down to whisper in her ear.

"I hope that was worth the wait."

He abruptly tore the tape from her mouth, taking with it what felt like another layer of skin, but Olivia could only shudder and gasp on the bed, pathetically relieved at the respite. The combination of pain and oxygen deprivation was making her nauseous.

Lewis looked down at her, seemingly amused by her misery. "Still want to live?" he asked.

She looked away and didn't answer.

In response, he climbed back onto the bed, placing the sharp point of the can opener against her jugular, pushing just hard enough to hurt. She drew a breath sharply.

"I said, do you still want to live? We can end things right now, if you want." He pushed down a little harder.

Her thoughts exploded in panic, her mind babbling that this instrument wouldn't cut her throat but tear it, rip her open until her lifeblood splashed against the floor and the walls, a morbid work of art for CSU to photograph and analyze, something that Cragen and Munch would shake their heads over, recreating her last moment.

"Yes," she burst out, her voice ragged. "I still want to live."

Lewis smiled at her and removed the point from her throat, and she gasped in relief.

"Good," he said. "I would have been disappointed if you gave in this fast. But you've been very good so far, so I'll tell you this. You can make this end whenever you want, just say the word." He waved the can opener at her again, and winked. "I'll make the pain stop. Bear in mind, this isn't an option I've offered to anyone else. Call it a professional courtesy."

She shivered at the implication. It was going to be a race, then, to see whether her mind or her body would give out first. She didn't know which one it would be and was terrified to find out. The fear was compounded as Lewis got off the bed again and started digging through the brown paper bag. He emerged with a small blowtorch.

"Well, if you're bored, we can do something else for a while." He brushed the tip of the blowtorch against the skin of her cheekbone, then glanced at her face. "You can beg me not to do this, you know."

She managed to stare back at him with some hint of defiance. "Somehow, I doubt it'll matter if I do," she rasped.

He laughed. "You catch on fast."

He turned on the blowtorch and drew it along her collarbone, and she screamed wordlessly, her other senses nearly obliterated by the intensity of the agony. It was worse than the cigarettes, worse than the keys, she could feel her skin blistering and breaking beneath the flames. She was dimly aware of Lewis pulling away the torch, moving further down the bed, even as the pain continued unabated. She only understood what was happening when she felt a fresh burst of heat on her calf. She struggled wildly against her bindings, the ropes and cuffs tearing her skin and refusing to budge but she couldn't stop. She needed to do something, anything to get away from the pain.

Lewis turned off the blowtorch and perched at the foot of the bed, watching as she writhed and panted, trying desperately to catch her breath. "It takes skill to use the blowtorch, you know," he said almost clinically. "If you bring it too close, if you leave it in the same place too long, it burns away the nerves and they go numb. It takes away the fun, I think."

He patted her on the leg, right above her newest burn, and she let out another cry. "Lucky for you, I have a lot of practice."

"Please," she whispered, unable to suppress the quiver in her voice. "Please, no more."

Lewis shook his head in mock-disappointment. "And here I thought we agreed that begging wouldn't help you this time. Although..." he tapped the still-hot tip of the blowtorch thoughtfully against her leg, drawing another whimper. "I've been wondering. Who was it that you were thinking of earlier? The one that made you so sad? Tell me, and maybe we can cut this short."

Elliot. Her mind immediately rebelled. She couldn't tell him. He would use the knowledge against her somehow, she knew it for certain. Her memories of her old partner were one of the last good things about her life that Lewis hadn't touched, hadn't tainted. She couldn't bear spending the rest of her life being reminded of Lewis whenever she thought of Elliot, she couldn't.

She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, then lay back and stared at the ceiling, bracing for more pain. It came in a bubbling streak of agony across her thigh, and she gasped but didn't scream.

"Come on, Detective." Lewis sounded amused. "What harm could it do to tell me? I'm not going to hurt them. I already have you. I'm just curious. Is it worth it, to go through all this just to deny me a bit of information?"

If she gave in now, he would just go onto some new torture, she reminded herself. She had to endure.

This time, he drew the flame across her stomach in a slow spiral, and when the pain finally faded enough to allow for rational thought, she could see the wound clearly, a red and brown pattern of charred flesh, blisters and cracked skin. The sight made her woozy and she prayed she would pass out, anything for even the tiniest break from the agony.

"See, if things were different, I would have guessed you were thinking about your boyfriend. No one gets that look about their father or their sister or anything, not unless something's very wrong. But I saw you listen to your boyfriend on the phone. You've never looked at him that way, I'm pretty sure. So tell me, who was it? What was his name?"

Olivia clamped her jaws shut. She couldn't do it, couldn't give him this last tiny fragment of her soul.

Lewis burned a long, meandering line into her side, and she screamed until stars danced at the edges of her vision.

"Come on, Detective," he crooned. "Just say it. Tell me his name."

The name tore out of her throat like a prayer. "_Elliot_."

"Elliot," Lewis mused. "A man, then, but not your boyfriend. So who was he?"

"He was - he was an old family friend," she lied desperately. "I've known him since I was a kid -"

This time, he burned her right between her breasts, focusing on a single point, holding it until the pain approached the promised numbness and she couldn't even manage to scream. Lewis waited until she'd gotten control of her dry sobs, and shook his head in disappointment.

"For a cop, you're a pretty bad liar," he said softly. "How about the truth this time?"

"He was my old partner," she gasped, barely able to speak through the agony. "Please, _please_, stop."

"Of course," Lewis laughed. "I should have known. But he wasn't _just_ your partner, was he? You wouldn't have spent this much time lying about him if it were that simple. What, did you sleep together, Detective?"

"No," she said immediately.

He tsked. "Defensive, aren't we? But why not? A woman like you, I can't see many people turning you down."

It wasn't a question she'd ever let herself think about. The simplest answer, that he'd been married, wasn't one she could give. She couldn't let Lewis know about Elliot's family, she couldn't risk him taking an interest. And it wasn't quite true, was it? He hadn't been married their whole partnership.

"He was my partner," she whispered. "It wouldn't have been right."

"Hmm, so it was out of honor then? You were too much of a good girl to bend the rules to get what you wanted? Or were you scared of screwing things up, ruining that one thing you needed in your life? That's sweet. So what happened? What made him your ex-partner, if staying together was so important to you?"

"He- he shot a seventeen year old girl. She had a gun, he was trying to keep more people from getting hurt. But he couldn't deal with it. Never came back."

"And so he left you all alone. Poor little detective," he mocked. "No one to see you home safe, no one to miss you when you're gone."

Lewis got off the bed, walking to the dresser and picking up the gun.

"Well, maybe you can pretend it's him, for this next part." He walked towards the bed, reaching for his belt buckle, his smile gentle, but his eyes vicious. "It might make this easier."


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Lewis untied her ankles, letting the ropes slip to the floor. Olivia pulled her legs together but didn't try to kick him. It hadn't helped last time. She remained limp, wondering what he was planning, as he dragged her closer to the headboard until she was almost sitting. Her hands were still bound to the sides of the bed and her arms stung with pins and needles as they were pulled into a new position.

He climbed onto the bed and tried to push her knees apart, but this time she fought, an automatic reflex. She stilled when he pushed the gun under her chin.

"Enough," he said calmly.

_Survive_, she reminded herself. With some effort, she made herself go limp again.

She closed her eyes as he spread her legs, preparing herself for another onslaught. But instead, she felt something cold at her entrance. She jerked her eyes open in time to see him push the gun inside of her, the hard metal edges scraping painfully against her already bruised flesh. She cried out once, then clenched her teeth shut. It hurt, but it had hurt worse to be burned. This was more for her humiliation than for his pleasure. The less she gave him, the sooner it would stop.

He thrust it inside her several more times, the corners and grooves of the gun gouging at her flesh. She gasped a little with every motion, but managed to look away stoically, not fighting, but also refusing to react further.

Perhaps he found this unsatisfying, or perhaps he'd been planning his next move all along, because he pushed the gun deeper inside her and twisted it slightly, making her back arch with pain. Then she heard something worse. The clicking of the safety. She turned her head to stare at him in sudden horror, breathing hard.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, please no..."

His eyes shone like a kid at Christmas. "I've never killed anyone this way before," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder how long it would take you to bleed out."

She was crying in earnest now. "Please..."

Lewis smiled and leaned over her, uncuffing one hand from the bed frame. She let it drop to her side, eyes still fixed on his face. The gun was maybe within her reach, but it would have been insane to try anything now - she couldn't look at it, think about it.

"Jerk me off, sweetheart," Lewis said quietly. "If you can get me off before the gun goes off, you get to live a little longer. My finger's blocking the trigger right now, but if you take too long, well -" He twisted the gun further into her, and she let out a whimper. "I might just find that it slips."

Even through the pain and panic, her mind cried refusal. It was one thing to passively accept these violations, it would be another entirely to participate. It would break another fundamental thread within her, destroy a little more of the woman she'd been. And after days of torture and degradation, she wasn't sure how much of that woman was left. Maybe it would be better to die now as Olivia Benson than to allow this to continue, to see whatever damaged shell emerged at the other end. Or perhaps to die here anyway, to finally fade away knowing Lewis had taken absolutely everything from her.

Lewis cocked his head slightly, watching her, and she could feel his finger moving against her skin, brushing against the trigger.

"Is this really how you want to go? I admit, it's not what I would have expected from you."

No. She couldn't. Not like this. Swallowing a wave of nausea, Olivia reached for him with her freed hand, shaking badly. She wrapped her hand around his length and stroked it slowly, feeling it throb beneath her skin. She retched, clenching her teeth together. All the while, she could feel the gun shifting inside her, and she trembled, half-expecting at any moment to feel hot lead tear through her.

Lewis was breathing harder, his hips jerking as he came. Olivia flinched back as the warm liquid hit her stomach. Smiling, Lewis twisted the gun again, and she let out a low moan of pain.

"You're not bad, Detective, when you have the right motivation."

"Please..." she whispered. At least she was too tired to feel much self-loathing.

"I know, I know. I promised." Lewis slowly withdrew the gun, and Olivia allowed herself a small moment of relief. She couldn't help but glance down at the weapon, and she saw the edges were streaked with red.

Lewis saw her look at the gun, and he shook his head. "I don't think so, Detective."

He set the gun aside, then recuffed both hands to the center of the headboard. He flipped her over abruptly, her cheek pressing into the pillows, hands twisting within the handcuffs.

She screamed again as he entered her from behind, feeling herself tear, feeling the fresh burns on her chest and stomach chafe and catch against the taut cloth of the mattress. Lewis moved hard inside her, every motion fast and brutal, designed to cause pain. Her body slid against the bed, damaged skin tearing open as he rocked against her, hard enough that her wrists pulled sharply against the cuffs with each thrust. Blood ran down her arms, dripping onto the mattress.

She was dimly aware that she was still screaming but her voice was giving out, trailing off into a hoarse whine. She gathered what was left of her willpower and made herself stop, concentrate on breathing, focus on anything but the pain, save whatever tiny bit was left of her sanity.

Lewis was whispering in her ear. "Was this what you wanted from _him_? To feel him move inside you, to pin you down and make you his? Did you watch him, those long nights alone in the car or the station house, wondering how it would feel? If he would be slow and gentle, or bold and intense? I bet it hurts, to know that I've touched you in a way that he never will."

He made a particularly vicious movement within her, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and she cried out again, a small, broken sound. She was begging now, pleading, words tumbling from her lips without conscious thought as she sobbed beneath him. Lewis laughed, and she felt it more than heard it, rumbling through his chest against her back.

But then she felt something else, vibrating through the too-tight cuffs on her wrist, almost against her bones. Something like the scrape of rusty metal against metal. It took her a moment to understand what it meant. The bar she was cuffed to on the bed frame was loose.

Immediately, she pushed the realization to the corner of her mind, as if afraid that Lewis would pluck it from her thoughts. Still, it flitted at the edges of her consciousness, a strange sensation, less of hope than of caution.

If Lewis noticed that she'd gone quiet, he didn't mention it as he finished and redressed himself. He leaned against the wall, smoking another cigarette, watching her cry into the bedspread. She found she didn't care. It seemed incredible that only hours ago she might have believed that hiding her weakness in any way mattered.

When she'd regained marginal control over herself, he walked over, crouching beside her at eye level.

"Do you need a break?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock-compassion.

She couldn't look at him. "Y-yes."

He put out his cigarette against her shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't hear that."

"Yes, p-please."

"Okay." He skimmed his hand slowly along her back, tracing the bumps of her spine as she shivered. "I think we've both earned a rest. Be good, okay? We'll start again in a bit."

With that, he walked out of the room, leaving her alone for the first time in hours.

She lay still as he moved away, her breath still hitching in her chest. She waited until his footsteps faded, then slowly, cautiously, raised her head. She glanced up at her hands and immediately wished she hadn't. Her wrists were a mess, ragged rings of raw meat surrounded by torn and bruised skin. The handcuffs were stained with a sheen of red, a single droplet of blood hanging off the center of the chain. But her hands still worked at least, though each movement of the cuffs against her wrists felt like knives digging into her flesh.

Gritting her teeth, she reached up and wrapped her fingers around the metal bedpost, tugging at it tentatively. She was half-convinced that she'd just imagined it coming loose, that it had been a hallucination brought on by pain and desperation. But no, the bar moved more distinctly this time, squeaking against the edges of its molding. It wouldn't survive another session like the last one. She could probably break it off herself, with a little time -

Olivia pushed the thought away again, almost afraid to consider it. Instead, she took a breath and slowly managed to roll herself onto her back. Her open wounds were already sticking to the sheets and they peeled away agonizingly, leaving behind dark red blotches.

She lay back, as carefully as she could, then closed her eyes and tried to collect herself long enough to think. She could feel blood and other fluids trickling slowly but steadily between her legs, a small distraction compared to everything else, but one that kept tugging at her attention. A small doorway to insanity if she chose to dwell on it.

This was a trap, it had to be. It couldn't be a coincidence that Lewis left her here alone so soon after she'd felt the bedpost loosen against its frame. He'd seen it too, or maybe just figured out that she'd noticed something different. This was a trick, a test to see what she'd do. If Lewis came back and found the bar broken, he would be furious, take it out on her. But if she didn't touch it, if she confessed to Lewis what had happened, maybe he'd show her some level of mercy...

_Are you kidding?_ The practical voice in her head sounded like Elliot at his most annoyed, and she paid it heed despite herself. _You know damn well that nothing you do will make him go easy on you. Why the hell aren't you taking this chance? _

Maybe because it wasn't much of a chance. Getting free of her restraints might have mattered hours or days ago, but not now. Lewis was between her and the door, and she couldn't take him, not after days of torture and deprivation. At best, she could hope that the windows could be opened quietly, that Lewis would be gone for long enough for her to get a head start. Hope that she could hide from him in the dark, hope that a car would come by so she could flag it down for help before she simply died of exposure. Those were too many ifs, when Lewis stood so firmly in the other room, her blood still on his fingers.

_That's funny, because I remember you thrived on long shots. On taking that Hail Mary case with only a shred of evidence and solving it because you never gave up. I know that stubbornness is still in there somewhere. Use it now._

No. Elliot wouldn't understand. The woman he'd known two years ago hadn't truly understood either. Hadn't understood how it felt to be so cowed, so damaged by someone that defying him started to seem impossible, absurd. To flinch internally at the mere thought of his name, to feel his loathsome touch on her very soul, knowing some piece of him would remain with her until the day she died. And why? Why was she fighting so hard to stay alive, anyway? To go back for months of slow and painful recovery? To deal with years more of sleepless nights and nightmares? To spend the rest of her life seeing the pity in people's eyes, when they realized what had happened to her?

_Because if you don't, Lewis wins. And if that's not enough, at least try and come back for the people that care about you. How would they feel if you died here?_

She considered it, but dismissed the idea. It was nice, sometimes, to pretend that her team was her family, but ultimately, they weren't. They'd get over her death. Brian would too, though it hurt her to cause him more pain. And Elliot - her death would affect Elliot least of all. He might be sad when he heard. But realistically, his life and routine would be no different just because a woman from his past had slipped a little further away.

The internal voice seemed to have no answer for that, and for a little while longer, she lay still on the bed, exhausted, listening to Lewis move around the rest of the house, a radio or television murmuring softly in the background. But lying there, accepting her fate, still seemed wrong somehow, almost antithetical to her nature. And almost against her will, she felt herself pulling on the metal bar again, wriggling it against its casing.

She'd worked at it for maybe another minute before she became aware of Lewis's footsteps again, falling in that deliberate rhythm that she was starting to recognize as meaning he was in a particularly vicious mood. Was he coming closer? The acoustics of the empty house made it difficult to tell.

She panicked, tugging at the bar with all her strength, heedless of the noise, heedless of the pain in her wrist. It finally detached with a grate of rust, falling into her hands right as Lewis walked through the door.

He froze for a moment, glancing at the bed, then glancing at her. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Olivia's stomach clenched in fear as she stared at Lewis in the doorway. Part of her wanted to drop the bedpost and cry, to lower her eyes and beg him for forgiveness, for leniency. She would have, if she thought it would matter. But when she looked at his face, she saw no mercy in his gaze. It was fight or die.

She managed to struggle off the mattress, putting the bed between her and Lewis. It hurt to stand, hurt to move, hurt even to grip the bedpost. Lewis hadn't moved, still watching her from the doorway. He was grinning, but he was angry. She could see it in the jut of his jaw, the slant of his frame.

"You keep on surprising me, Detective. I honestly thought you were smarter than this. Come on. Put that down, and maybe we'll pretend this never happened."

"Lewis. Billy. Please, stop. You've won, okay?" Soothing words. She'd said some variation of this to perhaps a hundred suspects over the years, trying to talk them down or get a confession. She hadn't realized how bitter it would taste to actually mean them. "You've proven you're better than me, the NYPD, everyone. You'll be in my head the rest of my life. There won't be a day that goes by where I won't think of you, of what - of what you've done. Isn't that enough? If you leave now, maybe we can both walk out of here."

"Oh, really? What's your story going to be this time? You decided to go on a surprise vacation through a threshing machine? Come on, sweetheart. Give me a little credit."

"No. No, you're right. I'll tell my team what happened, do everything in my power to make sure you're put away. But whether I'm alive or dead, they're going to catch up to you eventually. You know that. But you play the court system better than anyone I've seen. You can still go free, just like all those other times. But if I die here, you won't even make it to trial, do you understand? They'll put a bullet in your head the minute they see you, right after they put two in your knees. Walk away now, at least you'll have a head start."

Lewis was shaking his head, genuine amusement on his face. "You're unbelievable, do you know that? All right." He moved a couple feet to the side, then gestured to the empty doorway. "Go on then. Get out."

She hesitated. There was something in his eyes, some dark, ugly anticipation coiled beneath the surface.

"Come on. What's with all the waiting? Either get out or get back on the bed. Your choice." His smile was gone now, his body tense.

Olivia swallowed and slowly moved forward. The ground seemed to shift subtly beneath her as she walked, like a pier in the wind. She didn't try to hide the limp in her gait, but pretended not to see Lewis's look of pleasure as he watched her struggle.

She was four feet away from the door, three now. She was debating whether she was close enough to try and bolt past him, when Lewis made his move. He lunged for her, fist raised. But she was ready for him, turning and swinging the bar at his head with all her remaining strength.

He caught it easily, tearing it from her hands. Then he returned the blow, smashing the bar into her shoulder, her ribs. Her scream of pain was lost as her body hit the ground hard, the air rushing from her lungs. She lay on the ground gasping, as Lewis paced towards her, his boots thudding against the floor.

"You really thought you could take me? Come on then. Get up. I'll give you another shot."

She managed to turn over onto her stomach, her breathing shallow. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and instinctively tried to crawl towards the door, handcuffs scraping painfully against her bloodied wrists.

Lewis brought his foot down hard, crushing the little finger of her left hand against the hardwood floor, bones shattering, fragments grinding against each other. She let out a choked cry of agony and collapsed back onto the ground.

Somewhere above her, Lewis chuckled. "You're supposed to be a cop, sweetheart. Have a little dignity. If you're going to get out of here, you better walk like a human being, not crawl like a fucking dog."

She moaned, clutching her hand to her chest. He nudged her with his boot.

"I said, get up. Don't make me ask again."

Gasping with pain and effort, she slowly managed to drag herself upright. She wavered on her feet for a moment before he hit her again. His fist drove into her stomach once, then twice, sending her to her knees. He struck her across the face, her head snapping to the side, her teeth cutting into the inside of her cheek. She instinctively raised her arms, trying to protect her head, and he grabbed her by the hair, slamming her into the ground.

She trembled on the floor, trying to curl up against the pain. Blood dripped between her lips from the cut in her mouth, trickling down her chin.

Lewis huffed a laugh. "Was that it? Really? It's like you're not even trying. Get up. Let's go again. We can do this all day, if you want."

She coughed, her ribs aching. Movement seemed impossible.

"What, still waiting for your team? Here's the truth, sweetheart, they're not coming. They've had days to look. This place should be swarming with cops by now. But it's just you and me." He circled her, moving slowly, like a predator closing in on wounded prey.

"And here's the thing, what makes you think I'll even let them find you? The first girl I killed - I had to spend all night burying her in the lot by my house, but she never showed up on your file, did she? With you, we have the whole ocean right there. It won't even be hard to hide your body. They'll never know for sure what happened. The only thing left of you is going to be a black mark on the NYPD's record. So get up. At least I'm giving you a chance, right?"

Panting openly, she managed to roll onto her stomach. She braced her remaining good hand against the ground, then laboriously pushed herself upwards, inch by inch, every limb shaking. She almost managed to raise herself to her knees before her arms collapsed. She hit the ground again, nearly passing out as she fell onto her shattered finger.

"I-I can't, p-please, I c-c-"

He kicked her hard in the stomach, flipping her onto her back, and she retched and curled up on her side again, lacking the breath to even scream.

"Oh, I think you can. Just try it." He made as though to kick her again, and she flinched, trying to shield her face. "I mean it, Detective."

There was blood on his shoe, she thought blearily. Somehow, she found the strength to roll over, raise herself up on her hands, her feet slowly finding purchase beneath her. She was almost fully standing when Lewis drew close. He caught her as her legs gave way and she trembled against him, lacking the strength to move away.

"I can help you," he whispered, his lips moving against her shoulder.

He yanked her upwards by the throat then threw her into the dresser, the hard corners digging into her shoulders and back. The impact sent a lamp toppling onto the floor, shattering around her in a shower of porcelain, glass, and sparks, plunging the room into semidarkness. Even so, she could see the glint of his teeth as he grinned a vicious grin.

"Oops. Now get up."

She couldn't. She physically couldn't. No amount of threats or punishment could change that simple, incontrovertible fact.

He struck her on her back with the bedpost, leaving a long, red welt.

"Get up."

"Please-"

He stomped hard on her wrist, and it broke with an audible crack.

"Get up, Detective. Just one more time, and maybe we can end this."

No. It would never end. She was going to die here, and trying to obey him wasn't going to change that.

He kicked her again, and she slid across the floor, the wood scraping her skin, sharp splinters of glass digging into her back, and she somehow found the strength to scream. Still, she didn't move.

"No? You've finally had enough?"

She could only cry, blood trickling from her back.

He stared down at her, silhouetted by the light from the living room, his expression thoughtful.

"Okay," he said. "So what else can we do to teach you not to fuck with me? Nothing so far seems to have made the lesson stick."

He trailed the bedpost slowly up her leg as he spoke, a wolfish smile back on his face. She panted and looked away, bracing herself for another violation. But he paused suddenly, as something caught his attention. He dropped the bedpost behind him, leaning over her to grab something from the ground. Olivia glanced at his hands as he straightened. He was holding the wires from the broken lamp.

Immediately, she tried to struggle away, move back. But he pinned her down with a heavy booted foot, air whooshing out of her lungs, glass stabbing further into her skin.

"It's almost like a sign, isn't it?" Lewis said, inspecting the wires closely.

"Please," she whispered, finally finding her voice. "I'm sorry."

"You will be," he agreed.

He leaned down and pressed the exposed tip of the wire to her hip. Electricity arced through her body, every nerve screaming, every muscle seizing up on itself. She tried to cry out but her throat wouldn't work, her lungs constricting, her heart beating a faltering tempo against her ribs. Sights and sounds seemed to grow distant, and she wondered if this was how it felt to die. She found that she welcomed the possibility, if only it meant the pain would finally _stop_...

Just as suddenly, it was over, and she lay shuddering on the floor as Lewis watched her try to catch her breath.

"I've never used electricity before," he said speculatively. "It's too easy to kill people on accident. Still, it's interesting."

"Please," she gasped, when she could finally speak again. Her words were slurred, her voice wavering. "Please, j-just end it. I can't - I can't take anymore. You said - you promised. Please, you promised."

"You want to die already? Honestly, Detective, I expected better from you." He crouched down beside her, his thumb stroking her cheek, his face set into some approximation of sympathy. "Unfortunately, that's not an option anymore. You see, I offered you an easy out back when you were being good. After what you did, do you really think you still deserve the privilege of a bullet to the head?"

She stared at him, breathing hard. He pinned her down with his foot again, the rubber pattern of his boot digging into the soft skin of her stomach. He took a moment to savor the terror in her eyes before bringing the wire down again, touching it this time to the side of her breast.

The pain came in waves this time, like a thousand spined insects burrowing through her flesh. She could feel the burn of the wire on her skin, the current searing her inside and out, her eyes rolling wildly in her head.

When it was over, she couldn't move, couldn't speak. She could only watch helplessly as Lewis kicked apart her knees, stepping between them. He bent down to whisper in her ear.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you'll last much longer anyway. You haven't got much left, sweetheart. I can see the end in your eyes. But hang on just a little longer, okay? We've still got a couple things to try."

He touched the wire between her legs, and the world disappeared in a deluge of agony. She must have blacked out from the pain this time, because when she came to, he was inside her, his movements fast and hard. She couldn't breathe. Every faltering effort by her lungs were countered by Lewis pushing against her. She tried to gasp for air, to move away, but her body wouldn't respond. The world was growing darker, and she thought for the second time in minutes that she might truly be dying. Part of her was almost grateful, but this meant that Lewis would own her final moments. Her last vision would be of his face, her last sensation the press of his body against hers.

Control returned slowly. The muscles around her chest finally loosened enough for her to take tiny, whimpering breaths, her limbs finally recovered sufficiently for her to clench her fists against the pain, her fingernails digging bleeding crescents into her skin. Lewis saw this and laughed, pulling her harder against him as they moved together in the glass and dust.

When he finally climbed off her, she could only manage to curl up on her side, shivering, crying, her muscles still twitching erratically. A large shard of the broken lamp dug painfully into her palm, and she curled her fingers around it.

"Shh..." Lewis was stroking her hair again, his fingers playing between the strands, waiting for her trembling to subside. "Look at me. Come on, Detective. You can do it."

She felt her chin being lifted by the gun barrel, and she opened her eyes to see Lewis smiling down at her. He kicked her onto her back again and crouched down beside her.

"Now," he said softly. "I think -"

With a sudden motion, she shoved the jagged piece of porcelain into his face, as hard as she could. It lodged deep into his eye and he fell back with a howl of pain, dropping the gun. It clattered to the ground right by her head. Panting, limbs shaking, she managed to roll over and push herself to her knees, grab it with her remaining good hand.

Lewis was staggering away, clutching at his face and screaming. She braced herself against the dresser behind her, glass splinters shifting within her back. The gun seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, pain screaming through her injured wrist, but she managed to raise it to eye level. Her arms would barely obey her and the weapon wavered as she tried to point it at Lewis. The room was spinning, the air in front of her seeming to shine with a strange haze. Slowly, her finger found the trigger.

She fired until she heard the click of the empty chamber. Only two bullets found their mark. One clipped his hip, spinning him slightly. The other lodged in his knee, and his leg gave out from beneath him as he let out another howl, toppling heavily to the ground near the bed.

For a long moment, he lay still, and she was convinced he was dead. Then, slowly, he raised his head and grinned at her, blood dripping from the glass still stuck in his eye.

Olivia let the empty gun slip from her numb fingers. He was undefeatable. She'd done everything she could and then some, and he still wouldn't go down, he was still _smiling_. And now he was going to hurt her again. It made her wish she had saved a bullet for herself.

But Lewis made no move towards her, merely pulled himself slowly upwards to lean against the bed. Two dark red stains spread slowly down the cloth of his pants.

"Not bad, sweetheart," he rasped. "I think we can call this one a tie."

He slipped his belt from his hips, and she instinctively flinched. But he only wrapped it around his leg, cutting off the flow of blood, though the wound at his hip still bled steadily. He turned to look at her, the light from the living room glinting off his remaining eye.

"Which one of us do you think will last longer, do you think?" He looked her over as she closed her eyes and slumped against the dresser behind her. "I think it'll be me. You're pretty far gone, and I'm not sure you hit me anywhere vital. I might even make it out. But I'll enjoy watching you die, Detective."

She finally raised her head and met his eyes with a flat, fevered gaze. Slowly, she reached out a hand, wrapping it around another shard of the broken lamp.

Lewis was still grinning. "There she is. I knew there was something left. Come on, do it. Don't let me make it out of here alive."

She hesitated. Her head ached, it was hard to think. Wouldn't it be better to simply call for help? Or was that what he wanted, for her to be distracted so that he could surprise her, hurt her again?

Lewis's laughter cut through her thoughts. "I knew it. I knew you couldn't do it. You don't have the balls. Now I know why that partner of yours left."

"You don't know... a goddamned thing," she panted, lips drawn back in a snarl.

"No? That girl that your partner killed - why was he the one who shot her, instead of you? You're a cop, you had a gun. It's your job to stop shooters, even if they happen to be a cute little seventeen-year-old. Who could have died while you did nothing? Some civilian you were supposed to protect? Your partner? Maybe even you. See, sweetheart, I had you pegged from the start. You like to talk, not fight. And most of the time, maybe it makes you a good cop. But sometimes - sometimes that's not enough, is it? Some people can't be talked down, people like me. And when that happens, most people have to choose. Choose if they want blood on their hands when there might have been another option, or risk other people being killed."

Olivia clutched the jagged shard harder in her hand as it slipped against her blood. She pulled herself forward, unsure if she was headed towards Lewis or the door. He watched her, the smile never leaving his face.

"But you, Detective, you never had to make that choice, did you? Because you knew your partner would do it for you. Whenever there was a shot that was anything but a perfectly clean kill, whenever someone had to use a little more force than necessary to get information, you would hold back. You didn't need to push, because you knew he would do it instead. And when the day ended and the bad guys were put away, you got to go home, sleep easy, knowing your conscience was clean - clean as any cop's nowadays, anyway. But he couldn't. For all those years, he shouldered both your sins. Until one day he finally had enough."

"Shut up," she hissed. She was moving towards him now almost on reflex, some sane part of her mind screaming against it.

"But he's not here now, is he? He's not going to burst through that door, make that choice so you don't have to. But you're here, and so am I. I'm injured, unarmed. All your rules, your morals say that you can't touch me. Maybe the woman I met in the interrogation room all those days ago would go get help, save us both. But that's not what you want now. You want me to die. You want to feel my blood run over your hands, hurt me the way I hurt you. And maybe you can fool yourself into thinking that it's for the public good, that you're making sure that I never hurt anyone again. But deep down, you'll know you did it because it feels good. Because it's what I _deserve_.

She was two feet away from him now, almost within arm's reach. She paused again, his proximity restoring some measure of sanity. Nothing good could come of this. If only the room would stop spinning for long enough to let her _think_.

"Oh come on, don't stop now. We can think up reasons, if you want. Here's a thought. Maybe in all that time waiting in your apartment, I found that extra clip of bullets you keep by your bed. And maybe, just maybe, I took it with me. And when your team bursts through the door and they're distracted for that split second by the sight of you lying dead on the ground, maybe I'll kill one of them too." Lewis cocked his head cheerfully, glancing at the darkened ceiling. "Personally, I think I'm gunning for the Cuban one. I'd love to blow that smug look off his face. I bet at the funeral they'll shake their heads over how you managed to destroy not one, but two of your partners -"

She threw herself at him with a wordless scream of rage, limbs buoyed by the strength of sheer hatred. The jagged point of the broken lamp slid deep into his chest, and Lewis looked down at it, seemingly surprised.

Amazingly, he laughed. He laughed even as blood bubbled through his mouth, dripping down his chin. He laughed until she cut his throat in a spray of red, and even then his laughter echoed in her head, making a counterpart to her screams. She stabbed him until her strength gave out, and she fell back, clutching her head and sobbing, blood dripping from her wounds and mixing with his.


	10. Chapter 10

10.

Olivia was brought to her senses by the feeling of warmth on her knees. She looked down and saw she was kneeling in a pool of blood - most of it Lewis's, she hoped. But too much of it was hers, running in slow rivulets down her mangled back, seeping from torn burns, a tiny trickle from between her legs.

Any adrenaline was truly gone now, and she could feel every burn, every bruise, every cut on her body. Her head spun, and her mouth was dry. On the other hand, her left wrist didn't hurt much anymore, but she couldn't bend it, or even flex her fingers, and she knew that was a bad sign.

On top of it all, she was tired. Even on her hardest cases or longest nights, she'd never been anywhere near this tired before, a bone deep ache of exhaustion, a heavy gray cloak overlaying all other thoughts and sensations. She wanted nothing so badly as to lie down, close her eyes, sleep until things were better. If she did, she knew she would never wake up. Part of her thought that might be okay.

But no, she'd made it this far. What was just a little more? She had to get up, call for help. But her hands were still cuffed, and that meant rooting through Lewis's pockets for a key, a task she didn't relish.

She glanced at Lewis and immediately wished she hadn't. His face was eradicated, a mess of mangled flesh and shredded skin. His throat was all but gone, a gaping, ragged hole. Smaller holes dotted his chest and stomach. Lower down, too. Only his mouth remained intact, locked in a sunken, crooked grin, like a rotted jack-o-lantern.

If she'd had the strength to be sick, she would have lost whatever might be left in her stomach. As it was, she only breathed faster and averted her face. She couldn't afford any more weakness now. Tentatively, her left wrist hanging uselessly, she reached her right hand into Lewis's pants pocket, the one closer to her. It was empty.

She groaned aloud. Of course it was. For a moment, she considered simply leaving the handcuffs on. But no, getting the key would be a simple task, physically, at least. Gritting her teeth, she shuffled forward and leaned across Lewis's body, reaching into his other pocket. She was half convinced that she was about to feel his hand reach out and grip her neck, push her to the ground. Her fingers brushed metal, and Lewis shifted beneath her. Olivia threw herself back with a scream, the key clattering on the floor.

The movement almost made her pass out, the combination of pain and dizziness from the sudden motion sending a wave of darkness across her vision. She crouched on the floor, panting, staring at him in terror, before realizing her weight had probably just pushed his body further down.

But she couldn't bring herself to touch him again. Even dead, his proximity made her breath hitch in fear. She crawled around him instead, the cuffs cutting further into her flesh with every step. Gingerly, she managed to snag the key. A moment later, the handcuffs finally clattered to the ground, not a fleck of silver visible through the clotted red. Still, her hands were free for the first time in days. She searched herself for some hint of pleasure but found only numbness. She didn't have time for celebration.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. It made the world spin even more, if possible, and her leg hurt with a deep, sharp pain. But both seemed bearable. She made it perhaps two steps before falling and hitting the ground hard. _Now_ her wrist hurt.

She rolled onto her back and sobbed for a moment, trying to set aside the exhaustion and agony and dizziness long enough to formulate some sort of half-coherent plan. Maybe there was a phone somewhere, or a neighbor she could ask for help. She closed her eyes, listening for the rumble of a passing car, the buzz of distant voices. There was nothing. Only the sound of the rush of waves against the shore, soothing and rhythmic, fading slowly away...

Olivia jerked her eyes open with some effort. This was useless. She had to stay awake, keep moving. The door was right there, she could try the living room. If nothing else, it would get her away from Lewis's body. The mere idea of trying to stand up again made her wrist throb even more, so she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her hands and knees. At least no one was here to see her crawl anymore.

Slowly, agonizingly, she dragged herself out of the room, cradling her injured wrist against her chest, flinching whenever the burn on her leg scraped against the floor. She stopped at the doorway and looked behind her, wanting to make sure Lewis hadn't somehow gotten up to follow her out. He was still where she'd left him but what she noticed instead was the trail of blood she was leaving behind, dark red drops and streaks meandering across the hardwood.

She lowered her head and fought off another wave of dizziness. She needed help right now or she would bleed out right here, and she and Lewis would die together, like two snakes locked in each others' jaws. But there was no sign of a phone in the living room either. Only furniture covered in cloth, cheery pictures in frames, and drug paraphernalia scattered across the floor. Lots of people didn't bother keeping land lines anymore, she knew, especially in their vacation homes. Maybe she'd die here anyway, a phone call away from rescue.

Somehow, she pushed herself her forward, heading towards the nearest room. There had to be something useful here, something that could help. The door turned out to lead to a tiny laundry room. A small bottle of detergent lay on the floor, several white towels sat high on a shelf above a dryer. A thin layer of dust coated every surface. No sign of a phone.

She was about to leave, or maybe just lie down, when something caught her attention. At the bottom of the stack of towels lay what looked like a white bathrobe, its fabric belt hanging slightly over the edge. She was moving towards it almost before she realized what she was doing.

The shelf was perhaps six feet off the ground - easily within reach on a normal day, but seemingly impossible now. Still, she levered herself upwards, bracing her good hand against the dryer. The floor seemed to rock wildly beneath her, her vision obscured by a rush of gray. She rested her head on her forearm, half standing, willing the dizziness to go away.

This was a mistake. Maybe everything she'd done since meeting Lewis was a mistake, but this might very well be the last. She'd had the energy to do maybe one more thing after killing him, and she was wasting it on trying to cover herself, rather than finding help. And why? After all that happened, how could she possibly still care about modesty? The paramedics would probably have to cut any clothing off her, just like Lewis had. There would be photos and documentation for the case file. And besides, it wouldn't - it wouldn't-

"It won't change what happened," she said aloud, her voice cracking. The words seemed to float in the stillness of the air, sounding small and forlorn in the empty house.

The enormity of what happened finally hit her, that this wasn't a dream that she could snap out of, another bruise that she could shrug off. It was easier to keep going when she could just think of only the next step, of surviving another minute, because the thought of anything beyond that was overwhelming. A lifetime of confidence, self-image, and reputation, all but eradicated in four days of concentrated violence. No one would ever look at her the same, ever see her without thinking about what had happened. But the old Olivia, the one who'd never breathed a word to her partner about her time at Sealview, would never have allowed herself to be discovered lying naked and battered on the ground, with all of what Lewis had done on full display. And she had to believe something of the old Olivia was salvageable. Or she might as well lay down and die right now.

She took a breath, reached up, and pulled down the bathrobe, the towels falling to the ground with a quiet flump. The soft cloth of the robe caught on the cracked skin of her burns and she let out an involuntary cry of agony. This was insane. She was going to die here, and it wouldn't even be Lewis that killed her, but her own vanity, her pride. But she was covered now - she could face the first responders knowing she'd regained some modicum of control, of dignity.

It was harder to move now, every step made her wounds scream against the cloth, but she still felt better, in a perverse sort of way. This little victory gave her a second wind, and she dragged herself back out to the living room, then towards the kitchen, the last place she hadn't been. Her final chance.

The living room couldn't have been more than fifteen feet across but it felt like miles. Halfway through, her limbs gave out and she fell heavily to the ground. She lay there, her cheek pressing against the coolness of the floorboards, unable to summon the strength or will to keep moving.

This was far enough. It had to be. They'd know - her team would know that she tried, that she hadn't simply lay down and let Lewis win. And maybe it was better this way. She would never have to explain what happened, no one would ever know how she'd cried and begged and given up. She'd fought Lewis to a standstill - that must have earned her the right to stop, the right to rest...

She could almost hear Lewis's laugh echoing from the bedroom. _But you'll know, won't you? You'll die knowing that you begged for death, and I gave it to you, in the end. And I'll still be the last face you saw, the last person you ever touched._

With a cry of pain and frustration, she levered herself to her hands and knees, somehow dredging up the energy to push herself forward, one slow step at a time. By the time she reached the kitchen, her limbs were shaking, curtains of spotted gray drifting slowly past her vision. Everything seemed darker, it was hard to even look around. But she didn't have the energy to look for a light switch. The place seemed mostly empty anyway, a couple drawers and cabinets hanging loosely open, doubtlessly from when Lewis had rifled through them earlier. An empty green vase rested crookedly on the table, a small toaster oven sat on the kitchen counter. Right next to it was a small cordless phone.

With a sudden flash of hope, she crawled forward, dragging herself painfully up to the counter and reaching for the it. With her luck recently, it wouldn't have surprised her if the phone didn't work, and she could have just saved herself all the pain and effort and died back in the bedroom. But she dialed and was greeted with a calm, professional voice.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My name is Olivia Benson. I was abducted - " It occurred to her that she had no idea how long she had been with Lewis. Days, at least, but too much of it had been a haze for her to really know. She gave up on trying to explain. "Please, I need help."

The voice on the line no longer sounded quite so neutral. "Can you tell me where you are, ma'am?"

"I don't - I don't know. It's like a vacation house. It's by a beach." The idea of going outside to check the house number, look for a street sign, had never seemed so impossible.

"That's all right, ma'am. We'll trace your call. Are you injured?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I'm bleeding. My leg, my wrist, I think they're broken. I've been drugged... I don't know."

"Is your abductor still on scene?"

"He's dead."

As if that admission had cost her the last of her strength, her hands lost their grip on the phone and she slid to the ground. The voice on the phone was still speaking, sounding tinny and distant, but she couldn't muster up the strength to answer.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, drifting in and out of consciousness, before she heard the distant wailing of sirens, getting louder and louder. She closed her eyes again, jerking them open when the door was kicked open, hard enough to rattle the windows. Two uniformed officers burst in, guns drawn. One looked young enough that he had to be practically fresh from the academy, and Olivia briefly closed her eyes, trying not to remember the last rookie she'd come across, dying for merely stopping the wrong car. The older cop saw her first, lowering his gun slightly as he walked to her, gesturing to his partner to clear the rest of the house.

"Detective Benson?" he asked.

The title almost seemed like a mockery, when she was sitting here, this badly damaged, but she managed to nod.

"That's me." Her voice sounded different, hoarser, and she wondered if it was the dehydration or if she'd damaged her throat screaming.

"The ambulance was right behind us, Detective. You're safe, it's going to be all right."

The other officer returned then, eyes a little wild, his skin tinged slightly green. He glanced at her and then glanced away quickly. "The guy's definitely dead," he said, looking at his partner. "No one else in the house."

Olivia drifted off again as the paramedics came in, asked her questions that she wasn't sure she answered, touching her, lifting her onto a stretcher. Even more new voices joined in, sounding agitated, words melting together. If any of it was directed at her, she didn't know.

They carried her outside, and she opened her eyes just long enough to see the rookie cop bent over, retching in the bushes.

_I'm a monster now, too,_ she managed to think, before darkness overtook her.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

Olivia jerked awake from a nightmare, a tangle of colors and pain, where Lewis was alive, but he wasn't, where he was holding her down and hurting her, blood and ocular fluid dripping from his ruined face, and she wanted to scream, wanted to die -

But when she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital room, breathing hard, a heart monitor beeping rapidly behind her. She tried to calm herself before her frantic heartbeat got the attention of a nurse - she wanted to get her bearings before talking to anyone. She was groggy but not in much pain, so she could only assume she was heavily medicated. Her injured wrist and fingers were wrapped and splinted, and so was one of her legs. When she reached up with her good hand to touch her face, she felt a ridge of stitches across her forehead.

She took a shaky breath. She had survived. For whatever reason, she was alive. Somehow, she would have expected this thought to make her happier.

Glancing around the room, her gaze fell on Amaro, dozing on a chair in the corner, a half-open book on his lap. She felt an unexpected lump in her throat at the sight of him. She'd resigned herself to never seeing anyone she cared about again, so him being here now touched her more deeply than she would have imagined. Another part of her felt a tiny pang of disappointment. Had she expected Elliot to be here, waiting patiently for her to awake? It would have been naive, if she did. Facing imminent death, it was fair to imagine other possibilities, a different way her life could have gone. Now, in the cold fluorescent lights of the hospital, it was better to remind herself that he was part of her past now, for better or for worse.

Amaro must have heard her stirring, because his eyes popped open, and his gaze blearily sought hers. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes when he saw her.

"Hey, you're awake," he said, his face breaking into a smile. He stood up and walked to her side. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything from the nurse?"

"I'm okay," she said. Her voice still sounded rough, wrong. She wondered if she'd permanently damaged her vocal chords. "What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "About 3 AM."

She nodded. "How long have I - how long since -"

His eyes were gentle. "You've been out for almost two days."

"Two days?" She shouldn't have been surprised, all things considered.

"Yeah, well, you've been through a lot. Docs say they almost lost you a couple times. But you're out of the woods. We've been taking shifts sitting with you until you woke up, all of us on the squad and Brian. You're not alone, Liv."

Olivia felt tears forming in her eyes again, but blinked them away. She wasn't going to cry in front of Amaro, not when he was wearing that look of careful compassion that she'd used on so many victims herself. Still, she was grateful. She loved her team. Maybe they weren't her family, but they were the closest thing she'd gotten. But the joy and gratitude that she felt at this confirmation that maybe they really did care about her was tempered by the knowledge that they'd never look at her the same way again, never talk to her without thinking about this incident.

And Brian - she felt unworthy of him, when she'd barely thought of him throughout her ordeal. Yet he'd been here, and Elliot had not, so what did that say about any of them? Why was a man she hadn't seen in two years more worthy of her final thoughts than the one who was probably worrying about her right now?

Her mind answered with a flood of memories, of a thousand jokes on long stakeouts, of wordless commiserations when the paperwork dragged them deep into overtime, of a hundred late night calls when they were both too haunted by the horrors of their job to get any rest. Of tense hospital visits just like this one, of simply sitting silently by his side, knowing deep down that together they'd be okay.

But they hadn't been, neither of them. And now, when she needed him more than she ever had before, he was gone, like he'd never existed. Like he'd been an illusion of light and sound, vanishing when she looked away. Like none of it had mattered.

She cut off the line of thought and looked down at her sheets. "Thank you," she said finally.

Amaro had watched the interplay of the expressions on her face, and whatever he had seen, he didn't look encouraged. "It's going to be all right, Liv," he said quietly.

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but maybe it was a lie she needed to hear. She nodded and sank back down on her pillows, and unconsciousness claimed her again.

* * *

Olivia's doctor was in her early fifties, tall and precise, her brown hair streaked with gray. She stood near the foot of the bed as she ratted off a list of injuries, her voice clipped and clinical. Olivia listened, her face set into a mask of impassivity, her hands trembling beneath the thin sheets. Amanda and Brian waited outside the room, at Olivia's request. She supposed Amanda, at least, might have already seen her medical report, if it was related to the case. But she didn't want them to listen to it with her. She wasn't sure she could take that.

Not much of the doctor's report was a surprise, anyway. Lewis seemed to have wanted her to be awake when he hurt her. Still, it didn't make it easier to hear. The list seemed endless. Her burns were mostly second degree. They would scar, but they would heal, as would the skin around her wrists. She'd barely missed needing skin grafts. The bone of her thigh was chipped but not truly broken, it would mend relatively quickly. They'd spent ages picking shards of glass from her back, but nothing had gotten in too deep. Her left hand and wrist were the most badly damaged. Beyond the broken bones, she had torn several ligaments completely, as well as a muscle. They'd need surgery to repair. There were other injuries too, but her mind shied away from them, focusing on the more mundane

"I want the surgery as soon as possible," she told the doctor, half her attention on Amanda, who was peering in worriedly.

"Understandable, but you realize that won't be soon. Any kind of surgery is traumatic for the body, and yours isn't up for it now."

"I understand. When can I leave?"

The doctor frowned at her. "You ought to stay here for observation for a few more days at minimum. Your burns have an extremely high chance of infection, and we'd like to monitor you for any possible effects from the drugs you ingested."

She wanted to snarl that she was tired of being poked and prodded and stared at, and she just wanted to go _home_, before she realized that she didn't even have anywhere to go. Lewis had violated her apartment too, and it was still probably a crime scene. Even if not, she didn't think she'd be able to ever feel safe there again, to walk inside without feeling Lewis's hand on her shirt, the burning pain from the cigarettes.

Her shoulders slumped, and she fell back on her pillow, feeling defeated. Even that bit of motion caused a twinge on her burns, even through all the medication.

The doctor saw her look of misery and misinterpreted it.

"It's not as bad as it seems," she said soothingly. "It's mostly just a precaution - but an important one."

She nodded her assent, and the doctor took her leave as Brian and Amanda walked into the room. She managed to paste on a smile as they entered, but it felt painful and unnatural. She couldn't meet their eyes, especially Brian's.

"How are you feeling?" Amanda asked, stopping by the bed.

"Better," she lied. She'd been in and out for another day and a half following her first conversation with Amaro. She had a faint memory, or maybe a dream, of waking up screaming, thrashing against the sheets, knowing for a certainty that Lewis was alive, nearby. Of hands holding her down as she struggled and cried, of familiar and unfamiliar voices trying and failing to soothe her until a sharp pain in her arm and a wave of drugs coursing through her veins dragged her down into artificial darkness.

Whatever it was, at least it was over. These new medications made her feel strange and oddly calm, like a bridge had been severed between her thoughts and emotions. She could feel horror and panic roiling frantically somewhere in her mind but it seemed distant, foreign, like watching storm clouds gather across the river. It was nice, in a way. But her hands still shook, so some part of her was clearly not fooled by the drug-induced serenity.

"Good," said Amanda. Her smile was uncertain, and didn't quite reach her eyes either. "The guys are coming by later, once the shift ends."

"Okay." She managed to keep her voice neutral. They would come, and they'd try and fail to act normal, glance at her injuries and glance away, sympathy in their eyes. It was almost enough to make her wish the doctor would come back and drug her into oblivion again. But the specter of Lewis lurked in that gray space between consciousness and unconsciousness, and she had to face her team again some time.

Amanda took a breath. "You also need to give your statement, whenever you're ready. It won't be to us, the brass is having a different squad handle this from now on."

Olivia nodded. It made sense. They were all too involved at this point to be objective investigators. And it would be easier, anyway, to explain all the humiliating details to an outsider, rather than someone she'd have to look in the eye again. "Tell them I'm ready whenever they are."

"I'll give them a call, then." Amanda bustled out of the door, phone in hand, seeming relieved to have something to do to keep busy.

This left her and Brian alone in the room, tension and anxiety hanging thick enough in the air that it was hard for her to breathe. She looked out the window, studying the expanse of the parking lot with needless intensity.

Finally, Cassidy spoke. "God, Liv," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Brian, don't." she said quickly, before he could continue. "Let's not - let's not talk like this right now."

She chanced a glance at him, and he was looking back at her, wearing that look of sweet-eyed concern that had melted many a secretary's heart, back in the day. She hadn't seen it often of late. His years undercover had hardened him, worn away his soft edges, calcified the blithe streak of optimism that had made him stand out in a unit like SVU.

Part of her had been hoping to find something like revulsion or pity in his gaze, something that would justify her thinking of a different man when confronted with her own mortality. But there was only guilt and affection and worry, maybe some exhaustion from sleepless nights.

She clenched her teeth and looked down at her sheets, starting to feel a new flavor of self-loathing in her already overloaded emotional cocktail. And it was insane - it was pathetic to worry about this now, wasn't it? Maybe thinking about right things would be worse, maybe thinking about what happened would crush her fragile psyche beneath its weight, but this wasn't much better. Lewis had known in a fraction of a second that the man she wanted to see was not her boyfriend. She'd seen the contempt in his eyes, and part of her had agreed.

Desperate for a distraction, she blurted out the first thing that came into mind. "How have - how have you been holding up? And my squad?"

"Uhh..." It was clear he had no idea how to answer the question safely. "Everyone's been really worried about you."

"Right," she sighed, already casting about for a different subject. There was nothing. Every innocuous conversational space filler seemed absurd in this context, like chatting about the Yankees in front of a house fire.

Rollins chose that moment to walk back in, and they both turned to her with some sense of gratitude.

"They said they can be by to interview you in an hour or so," she said. "But it's not a rush, especially with Lewis dead. You can take more time if you need it."

Olivia shook her head. "I just want to get this over with."

"Okay." She hesitated. "Do you want me to call a union delegate for you or anything? Have them sit with you for the interview?"

"_What_?" Cassidy spoke this time, his voice incredulous. "They can't be thinking of charging her with anything. Not after what he did to her."

"No, no," Amanda said hastily. "I didn't get the impression that they were. Still, a man died. You know they have to investigate thoroughly. It's just always safer to have a lawyer around for this sort of thing, we all know that."

Rollins had seen the body, Olivia realized. Her memory of how precisely Lewis had met his end was hazy, but she remembered enough to know that it was bad, that she had gone far beyond even the loosest definition of reasonable force. Had she been acting as a cop, they would have taken her badge already, charges would be in the works. But she hadn't been a cop in that moment, she'd been a vict- a woman pushed beyond her limits. Extreme emotional distress would likely save her from charges, but would it be enough to save her badge? Would they keep an officer who had been raped and tortured, and had responded by putting out a man's eyes before slitting his throat? She suspected she wouldn't like the answer.

Still, Lewis had deserved it.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I did what I had to. I don't want a lawyer."

She was too tired to fight, too tired to do anything but let the cards fall as they will. And if they did find something wrong, if they did punish her, maybe she deserved it too. She deserved it for not protecting herself, for letting him intimidate her, for letting him have the upper hand every step of the way. He'd taken so much from her, and now that she was out, maybe the NYPD would take the rest.

William Lewis was dead, but somehow, he was still winning.


End file.
